


Soul

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 07, Souls, Unfinished and Discontinued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-01
Updated: 2011-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 00:07:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike's return, post-Grave, leaves him empty and alone. Xander feels the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s funny how it happens.

All that work.  The blood, the pain, the suffering, the fighting and finally it’s all right there.  Right where it’s supposed to be, and it’s all supposed to work out now.  Not perfectly, of course, because that’d be boring.  But it was supposed to  _work._

Spike looked up to the darkened window, waiting for the swell of love his soul was supposed to feel.  That was the  _point_ , dammit.  All the work was supposed to culminate in this moment, this one instant of clarity.

Instead there was mostly disgust.

He still loved her.  He probably always would.  But even with the guilt of decades of carnage, and his one, final action, the one that had made him choose a path he should have despised. . .

He couldn’t forgive her.

How ironic, that the monster couldn’t forgive the human?  Even with his brand new shiny soul, he still couldn’t bring himself to look past her actions to her hurt and her fear.

Actually, that was kind of the problem.  He knew all that.  He’d understood her pain from the first moment she’d pressed her body to his, tears and blood behind every action she made.  He  _knew_  all of that—hell, part of him was grateful that she’d found some kind of outlet to try and deal.

But it still wasn’t right.

He’d offered her whatever she wanted.  She’d taken what she shouldn’t have needed.

She’d raped him long before he’d ever tried to do the same with her. . . but her bruises were visible.  His still festered in the places he hadn’t had a name for, before he’d left.  So he couldn’t forgive her, couldn’t even muster up the desire to be with her.  To love her, yes.  To pity her, yes.  To want to help her. . . yes.  But the rest?

Standing outside, waiting for something he knew as never going to come.

Damn her.

 

* * *

He toed out the stand, letting the bike hover as the engine cut out, before letting it come to rest.  It was a sweet bike, one he hadn’t been willing to give up no matter what had been offered in trade.  And there had been some highly attractive incentives.  But the sleek, angry black bike was perfect for his image. . .

And it reminded him of Dawn.

The bar was barely half-full, but Spike was expecting that.  Demon and human both would prefer to go to the Bronze or maybe that new place that’d opened up not long before he’d left.  This place, So-Co, was a drunk’s bar.  The kind of place where there was no other point except large amounts of alcohol.

He slid into a booth in the back, unsurprised when a bottle of tequila was placed before him.  Fruity mixed drinks were not popular here.  Oh, the bartenders could probably  _make_  them, but their purpose was to put a bottle on every table and keep the glasses clean.  Cocktail, this wasn’t.

He poured a generous measure into the cup that came along with the bottle and knocked it back.  Then another, and another, and another still.  Soon the bottle was gone and something else replaced it.  He didn’t know what, and didn’t particularly care.  The quality was good, whatever it was, and it got him drunk.

It was the only way he could find peace.

He wasn’t stupid.  Well, no, yes he was.  Very, very stupid.  But he wasn’t as  _foolish_  as people thought—yeah, that was better.  You didn’t live to be a hundred and something-mumble without learning some of the tricks.  You sure as hell didn’t survive Drusilla very long without learning to be damned careful of your words.

He’d gotten exactly what he’d asked for.

Maybe he really  _should_  have just asked for the damned chip to be removed.  None of the other bollocks, just the chip; make me a bloody demon again.  Except. . . how could he?  Vampires were more sophisticated than a great many demons, yeah, and smarter too—but most of them didn’t  _think._   Not the way humans had to, once they stopped being children.  Vampires wanted, so they took.  They could scheme and plot, but it call came down to  _want, take, have._

Spike had been denied at every turn, and  _want_  had not automatically led to  _take._   So he’d learned to control himself, something no vampire—not even bloody Angel—ever truly learned.  Stupid poof would go on and on about skill and planning and he was even good at some of it. . . but denial as an object lesson?  Never.  Even with  _his_  soul, it hadn’t really changed.  He’d _wanted_  to feel miserable—so he did.  Usually dragging down everyone around with him.  The curse-clause was possibly his only real limitation, and even then, Spike wasn’t so sure.

 _If he’d wanted to, he could have gotten around it.  She told me should would have tried anything. . . but he always refused her._

He’d wanted to feel miserable, so he did.

Spike had wanted lots of things.  Instead, he’d been forced to make due with reality.  No vampire had  _ever_  been up against a situation like that before, and most probably wouldn’t have survived it.

 _I survived it.  I bloody thrived on it, didn’t I?  And yeah, it was horrible.  Especially once she. . . once she. . . came back.  Not left.  Hell, it was probably the best, then._   No blonde hellion to turn him into knots, but something even better.  Friendship.  Companionship.  And from the little one, love.

He’d wanted all that back again.  All of it, not just her.  He’d wanted  _family_.  That’s what he’d had, before Angelus snacked on a gypsy, before they put the chip in his skull, before  _she_ decided she’d treat him like her own supply of white powder.

A soul was supposed to give him that.

 _And mostly it’s just given me pain.  I take it back.  I am stupid._

“Yeah, you really are.”

Blinking through an alcoholic haze, Spike forced himself to focus on the figure that slid into the seat across from him.  Male.  Dark.  Pretty big.   _Very_  drunk.  Familiar. . .?

“Hello, Spike.  Welcome back to Sunnydale.  You should’ve stayed gone.”

Right, the boy.  Except, now that he was making himself look, there wasn’t much ‘boy’ left in those dark eyes.  Even  _without_  the alcohol.  “Yeah.  Probably right.”

“You missed a lot, you know.  End of the world type stuff.  Oh, and Dawn deciding she hates you.”

He tried to hide his wince, but he wasn’t sure if he was successful.  He knew he deserved her hatred—the demon  _and_  the soul knew that perfectly—but it still hurt.  Of all of them, he loved that girl the most, and hated to disappoint her.  “Do tell.”

So Xander did.  For hours, he talked about everything that happened since the moment Spike left that blasted bathroom.  He talked about things he probably hadn’t told anyone else—including his conversations with Anya, seemingly all of them, and the all-important conversation with Buffy.

“Willow and Giles are in England.  Anya’s. . . around.  She runs the magic shop, but I don’t go there.”  Flash of deeper pain.  “Buffy’s doing good.  Real good now.  She quit the Doublemeat Palace, but she’s got enough cushion that she’ll be okay for a while.  Giles helped her get a loan.  Dawn finishes summer school next week.  She’s doing great.  Training with big sis, even patrolling.  So we don’t need you.”  Another flash of hatred and loathing.

“They don’t.”

He wasn’t sure what prompted him to say that.  Well, no, he hadn’t lost his insight when he’d gained a soul—that was Angel, ta muchly—but he was still stuck on. . . _Tara.  Little tinkerbell.  Such a sweet one she was. . . and to go like that?  All alone, even with your lover two feet from you?_

Tears burned and he didn’t try to impede their fall.  William  _and_  Spike hadn’t been afraid to show their emotions after the proper lubrication.   _Three bottles of whatever we’ve been drinking should do that, yeah._  

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment.  Xander was watching him cry with the focus only the truly drunk can achieve.  “She was—she was a good lady.”

“She was the best of us,” Xander agreed reluctantly.  “The only one who did what was right no matter what. . .”

Spike looked up sharply through his tears, catching that same burst of hatred again.  Not directed at Spike.  He was  _part_  of it, but it was really directed at. . . the Scoobies.  Especially the four original members, but mostly the whole group of them—

“We couldn’t do anything right.  Buffy died and it was like. . . we died too.  And until she was back,  _really_  back, we all screwed up right along with her.”

“You think Buffy screwed up?”   _Fuck_ , he talked too freely when he was drunk.  He hadn’t meant to say that.

Dull brown eyes stared straight into his.  “She used you.  She tore you up and used you, just because she could.  I get that, now.  Still think what you did was wrong. . . but then, so do you.  Hell, what Willow did to Tara, or what I did to Anya was probably  _worse_  because hey, you’re a soulless vampire.  Best excuse there is.  We don’t have that.  We—we loved them.  And what we did was worse than rape.”

He knew his jaw had dropped.  He knew his eyes were wide.  A half-full glass of something dark—rum?—slipped from his fingers to thunk onto the table and spill its contents.   _World’s over.  Boy screwed up, and Red_ did _send us all to hell, he just don’t know it yet.  Only explanation._   Because otherwise. . . Xander was giving him a backhanded compliment.  And the thing Spike had always craved—respect.

Xander was stronger, both physically and in personality, and much more the survivor, but there were a lot of similarities between him and William the Bloody Awful Poet.   _If_   _I’d had a Red, to love me unconditionally, be my ally through all the social nonsense. . . might never have run away from that silly party.  Probably would’ve lived, grown up, become an accountant, and married her._

Except there was just one problem with that.

William didn’t like girls.

It shouldn’t be much of a shock, really.  Look at the women he went after: Cecily, arrogant and high maintenance, Drusilla, insane and high maintenance, Harmony, infantile and high maintenance, Buffy, bitchy and high maintenance.  None of these were women he could love, just women he could  _be_  with.

 _Pretty much like the boy and his flock of unattainables.  Probably why he didn’t go through with the marriage, really._

If William had had a bit more in the way of friends and acceptance—or had been a bit stronger—he would have  _been_  Xander.  Pretty much exactly.  It was why Spike had hated Xander with particular ire—possibly why Xander had responded with equal fervor—and the reason why it was so good between them here and now.

 _Gather round boys and girls, while Uncle Spike tells you a story.  Once upon a time, there was a twat of a vampire, who brought a gypsy girl to the vampire she had created.  After snacking on the tasty morsel, the Rom found out what had happened and cursed those who had killed their ‘clan favorite’.  Not the vampire that had_ stolen _the girl, but the vampire that had actually eaten her.  They gave him a soul._ Not _the long dead, long unlamented Liam, who was a tosser and a drunk and good bloody riddance, but something much more basic.  He got a conscience.  He got the ability to feel remorse and guilt and all the other brooding crap.  But the personality remained that of Angelus.  Just souled._

 _Now, we come to a fine, strapping figure of a man, who has got himself into a jam.  He’s got metal in his head, love in his heart, and a girl who hates him cause he’s soulless.  So he goes and gets himself a soul.  Not the cursed mass of aether-induced guilt, but a real_ soul. _Specifically, his old one._

Right now, William was pretty much letting the ‘Spike’ memories take control.  No more mental babbling in a corner, but not much was going to set him off.  So William was looking out through Spike’s dead eyes, remembering not only  _his_  memories, but the demon’s as well.

Before, Xander had been everything Spike had hated about his life.  Now, he looked like a friend.

“Wha s’wrong wit’ you?”  Xander had been matching Spike, nearly drink for drink.  Spike may now have the soul of a poet, but he still had the physiology of a vampire.  Xander didn’t.  “Starin’.”

“You okay, mate?”

“No.”  Belligerent and stubborn, there’s the Xander he knew and loved.  “Where’d you go?”

“Got the chip out.”

Hey, no one ever said  _William_  didn’t have an evil streak!  And the blanched ‘god, I’m  _stupid’_  look on Xander’s face was hilarious.  For about two seconds.

“Relax.  Not gonna hurt you.  Got a soul, too.”

“But—but you—a what?”  Blink, blink.   _I think perhaps I’ve overloaded his mind._

“Got a soul.  Chip don’t work—yes, I’ve bloody well tested it—but it doesn’t matter now, does it?  I’m bloody Angel, the second.  Call me poof or Soulboy and I’m out of here.”

Xander, however, wasn’t calling him much of anything.  He was too busy passing out.

Spike snorted.  “Right, then.  Time for good little boys, and idiot vamps, to be snug at home in bed.  And, seeing as Clem has basically taken over my crypt and I don’t have the heart to disturb him, your flat’s been elected.  Up we go.”

Slapping down a few bills, Spike reached for his duster—and flinched.  Swallowing, he reminded himself why he didn’t have it, and dealt with the wave of guilt and pain that accompanied the memory.  His wasn’t a constant barrage of pain and torment, like Angel’s had been.  At least, it wasn’t  _now_ , after three weeks lying in agony in an African tent.  Mostly because _William_  hadn’t done those things.  Or, he hadn’t come to terms with them, yet.  He wasn’t sure.  It was still all too new.

 _Brooding won’t get the boy home.  He needs a bed, and some food.  Possibly a lot of food._   Hefting the larger body should have been more work than it was.  He wondered how many meals  _hadn’t_  been drunk lately.  Probably not many.

 _Poor boy.  So afraid of turning into his father, and here he is, on the way to pickling his liver.  Well, can take care of that right quick._   He smirked, remembering that now he  _could_  hurt humans again—and not even William would object to scaring the living daylights out of the boy if it meant he would lay off the bottle a bit.  Drunken father was a intimate memory.

 _First things first, get him home._

No one even glanced as he got the boy outside and over to the motorcycle.  The boy had probably driven, but Spike wasn’t about to fiddle around looking for the car and jimmying his way in.  Dawn wasn’t too far off, and he wasn’t feeling suicidal. . . today, anyway.

By hitching him up practically piggy-back, Spike managed to get the two of them firmly seated on the bike.  Xander was drooling away on his back, arms clasped loosely around Spike’s waist.

 _Oh, god, he’s so_ warm.

It took a full minute before Spike could do anything but revel in human touch on him, even the drunk-passed-out kind.  Swallowing, he kicked the bike on.  He experimented with a hand hold, and cursed.  Xander was going to fall off the minute they started actually moving.  Spike was loath to tie his hands, even loosely, afraid of Xander waking up restrained even that much.

A very wicked, very horrible idea formed in the demon’s mind.  William took one look at it, and went into ultra prim-and-proper mode.  Except that didn’t stop the dead body from doing what his  _human_  body would have done.  Caught between a frown and a smirk, Spike sucked in his belly and wedged Xander’s hands in between him and his jeans.

And tried hard not to moan.

 _You should_ not _be getting aroused by this!_  the soul was shouting, edging back towards the hysterical babbling again.  Except it felt good.   _So_  good.   _Real warmth, human warmth, touching me without hatred or disgust or pain. . ._

Spike went as fast as he could.

By the time they reached the apartment complex, Xander’s hands had uncurled and were absently rubbing underneath the waistband.  Spike was rock hard in his jeans, trying desperately to concentrate on what he was doing.  He had  _no_  desire to force the boy into doing anything—that wasn’t the issue.

 _The issue is you’re horny.  The issue is that the boy is very, very hot.  The issue is that he’s so much like you it’s uncanny.  The issue is that he’s sweet and needs to be taken care of, and you bloody well can’t resist that kind of thing, can you.  The issue is that you_ want _him.  Willingly.  Sweetly.  You want_ him.

All of Spike was in perfect agreement.  Which meant perfectly miserable.

Kill the bike, haul the boy upstairs, hope like hell he had an invite—holy hell, he did!—find the bedroom.  Drop Xander, find some cold water, make him drink.  Going to have a hell of a hangover if he didn’t get hydrated.  Coax unresponsive, unconscious body into drinking some water, spill the rest everywhere.  Feel guilty—duh, as the teens would have said—and decide to strip off the wet clothing.

Which led to Spike staring at a naked Xander.

It was more obvious than ever that he hadn’t been eating well recently, but still. . . he was  _beautiful._   All hard muscle and soft skin— _no, bad, don’t touch_ —dark hair against a lovely flushed tan.  Cock half hard and waving without the underwear Spike had yanked off without thinking.  Thick and heavy that was, with a delineated blue vein throbbing along the length of it.

Spike’s mouth watered.

Hands clenching and unclenching convulsively, he backed away until he thumped into the wall.  Sliding down, he stared, mesmerized, as Xander moaned, shifted, and woke up.

“Um?  Hey, what—home?”  Xander sat up, blinking dazedly at his room.  “Spike?  Oh, there you are.  Didn’t you say you have a soul now?”

“Yes.”

“So, you don’t have the chip, but still aren’t going to hurt me, right?”

“Right.”

“Good.  Come up here.”

Blink-huh?

Xander sighed and lumbered to his feet.  Weaving unsteadily, he got to Spike’s part of the room and stumbled to his knees.  Spike’s eyes followed the pale, waving bits.  “Hey, perv boy.  I’m drunk.  I don’t like sleeping alone.  You’ve got a soul, which means you’ve got guilt.  Could use some, um, solace, right?”

Blink-huh?

Another sigh.  “Come.  To.  The.  Bed.”  Spike knew he must have looked totally panicked by then, because the exasperation faded into something. . . softer.  “Spike.  We don’t have to do anything.  I mean, I’d  _like_  to.  I’ve been hard for weeks, it feels like.  But it’ll be because we’re both horny and we’re both lonely—or not at all.  I’m serious.  I don’t like sleeping alone.  Don’t need anything more than. . .solace.”

There was a reason that word was important.  He knew there was, and he knew he shouldn’t be doing this.  But he was so desperately lonely.  Dealing with an agony that had no comparison, not even Angel—and Angel had had the luxury of ninety plus years to run around and be insane before he’d been thrust back into the real world.  Spike’d had four weeks. 

He hurt, he was drunk, he was horny, so  _lonely_ —

And Xander said he wanted it, too.

Big, warm hands that was suddenly much more steady were undressing him.  He had no idea how they’d gotten back to the bed.  Didn’t care, because he had a thick, drooling cock aimed at his mouth.  A sixty-nine.  Smart boy; skip the bullshit and just go for the everybody’s-happy route.

And then he was fondling strong thigh muscles, coming up and around and down again, to stroke warm human male.  Licked the tip, savoring the body-warmed secretions, and the salty-bitter taste.  Listened as Xander moaned around the bits of Spike he’d been licking, and grinned shyly.

“S’been a while, pet,” he felt the need to say.  Kept his lips near skin, so that the vibrations would be felt.

“For me, too,” was the breathless response.  “Don’t care.”

And then Xander deep-throated him.

Spike gave a strangled shout, exerting every bit of self control to  _not_  start thrusting into the boy’s mouth.  No chip, true, but choking him would probably be a bad thing, nonetheless.  Still moaning at the feel— _warm, wet, tight, god, his_ tongue,  _he’s definitely done this before_ —Spike remembered that this was a mutual thing and started returning the favor.

Suck, flutter, lick, flutter, suck, nibble.  Nudge the sac with the tip of the nose, bring hands around to rub a pretty arse.  Try not to come right then.  No chance is this ever happening again, so it needs to be savored.  Slowly work his hips back and forth, try not to marvel at the way Xander just takes him in.  Decide to be just a little bit daring, and drag one hand down a crevice.  Wait for the expected reaction—blink when it doesn’t come.

“Yeah, Spike, do that.”

He was still deciding whether to be unhappy at the removal of Xander’s mouth, despite the verbal encouragement when— _oh, bollocks.  That’s where he was going._   Convenient, having a swear word that was so. . . appropriate.  Feel his body moving in and out of slick, hot lips, a flat tongue rubbing warm human saliva all over.

Panting harshly—the soul forgot it wasn’t alive, frequently; he’d even wondered why he didn’t need to piss, on one humiliating occasion—Spike reminded himself that he was dead, and began suckling continuously.  A tube of something was tossed near his head.

Without looking, he prepared himself—and then hesitated right at the entrance.

A pop and then a sigh from the top of the bed.  “I’m not a virgin, Spike.  You won’t hurt me.”

 _What the—no.  Don’t ask.  Just make him feel good.  Make him feel_ better.

Slid one finger in.  Resistance, but certainly not the tightness of a virgin.  He pumped in counter point to what he was doing with is mouth, searching for and finding—

“Oh,  _fuck_ , I’ve missed this!”

It was the voice that did it.  The voice that said ‘thank you’ even while it was saying ‘don’t stop’.  The voice that knew what was going on, and why it was happening, and didn’t care.  The voice that said it felt good, and there was nothing  _wrong_  with that.

He orgasmed fiercely, hardly aware of Xander swallowing all of it.  That wasn’t important.  He exerted a bit of unfair vampiric strength, rolling them so that Xander was lying mostly on top of Spike, who was flat on his back.  Which meant he had one mouth, and two hands free to pleasure the human.

Every bit of skill he’d managed to pick up in a hundred years of fucking anything Drusilla said he could was used now.  Every trick, every touch, because solace was what had happened before.  This was thank you and relief—and it didn’t matter if Xander didn’t remember it in the morning.  Spike would.  He’d remember that for a moment, he was an equal with someone he’d always respected.  He’d made that person, to whom he’d caused so much pain, feel a little bit better.  That was worth more than his own orgasm, any day.

Xander was thrashing above him, practically sobbing into the Spike’s thigh as he jerked himself back and forth between his dual stimulation until—

Blunt teeth sank into the skin of Spike’s thigh, and even as warm, salty human essence filled his mouth, he felt himself start jerking again.  Felt Xander maneuver so that he could close his lips around the spurting head.

 _Still a vampire,_  he thought muzzily as he came down from his high.   _But now, maybe more.  Maybe. . . maybe what I wanted?  Nah.  But it’s nice to pretend._

Lazy tugs got him turned around and pulled under the covers.  “I’m all sweaty,” Xander mumbled, seconds from sleep.

Warm arms around him, heartbeat under his ear, and one leg thrown possessively over his own.  “Don’t care.”

“Mm.  ’Kay.  Good night, Spike.  ’m glad you came back.”

He waited until he was sure the boy was asleep—or maybe passed out might have been more accurate—before he brought an extra pillow up to catch his tears.


	2. Chapter 2

No breath.  No heartbeat.  No warmth soaking into his skin.  Just pressure on his side and the stiff-sticky feel of gel under his fingers.

Sleeping with Spike was weird.

Xander resisted the urge to giggle, mostly so his head wouldn’t explode.  He’d drunk  _much_  too much last night— _which is such a change from all the other nights.  Bad Xander.  No cookie for you._   He’d been lying there, attempting to remember the previous night, when he’d suddenly realized he wasn’t alone.

After a moment of blind panic, he’d glanced down to see that no, he  _hadn’t_  brought home some random girl or even—gulp—a hooker.   _Instead I have a short, bleach-blond snuggle-toy._   Which was  _possibly_  the same thing and no, he wasn’t thinking about that now.   _Coffee, then deep thoughts.  Maybe an Irish breakfast?  It’d help get rid of this headache. . ._

Spike moaned lightly, curling even closer around the human.  Xander managed to yank his other arm free just in time; vampiric strength  _was_  still working, thank you.  His bladder wasn’t exactly happy with this new position, but Xander told it to be quiet.  It was nice, being held like this.  If you ignored the desperation behind it, anyway.

 _Hey, no thinking before coffee, remember?_   Xander sighed, amused the way Spike’s head rose and fell with the strength of his breath.  He continued playing with the short, gelled-locks, a habit he’d picked up years ago from Willow.  It was nice, having someone who wasn’t going to yell at him for touching perfectly placed locks that his greasy fingers were certainly not allowed to muss and ruin—

 _Because thinking about_ Anya _is so much more restful.  Or Cordy, for that matter._   Neither had appreciated his small touches, but it was hard to curb them.  Especially since Spike was curling into his touch like an over-grown kitty cat.

 _Buffy says he purrs._

The speculation that random thought produced made him want to scrub his mind out with soap.  Possibly bleach.  Grumbling at himself, he looked down at his sleeping vampire.  Tried not to notice how easy it was to see the pain in classic features.

 _There should be pain.  He was an evil monster for a century.  He murdered, raped, and pillaged his way through Europe and probably the US too.  He tried to kill me and Willow over_ Dru, _and he would have fed us all to Adam.  He was a horrible creature who deserves everything he’s getting._

But all Xander could see was someone who was hurting.

“Hey, sleepy-head.”  There was no way he was going to be able to quietly slip out—or even loudly slip out—unless Spike let him.  Beside, it was only polite.  Petting the tacky locks, he twitched a little to bump his belly into Spike’s chin.  “Come on, I gotta go.  Spike, wake up a little?”

“Hung-over,” was muttered peevishly and the cool weight against him tightened another notch.

 _Okay, suffocating me is definitely a no-no._   “Spike,” he wheezed, “I gotta breathe.”

The head lifted up, big, anime-style eyes blinking at him in shocked surprise.  Xander  _whooshed_  as the arms around his middle relaxed and he could grab a lung-full of sweet air.  “Huh?” was the oh, so intelligent response.

“It’s morning, Spike,” Xander said patiently.  “I need to get up.”

An expression of intense concentration flitted over still too-large eyes.  “No,” Spike said rationally.  “It’s Saturday.”

The giggles that had threatened since Spike’s waking spilled over, burbling through the room.  “My bladder doesn’t turn off for the weekends,” Xander said through his laughter.  “Get off me, leech-boy.  Must pee.”

Spike rolled away obligingly, still blinking as he forced himself to wake up and understand what was happening.  “How did—how did I get here?” he asked through the partially open bathroom door.  He didn’t sound upset at being there, which Xander’s ego appreciated, just confused as to how he got there.   _Huh.  Wonder if he even remembers.  Given how much we drank last night. . ._  

Finishing his business, Xander wandered back into his bedroom.

“You’re naked!”  The eyes were back to anime size, staring at Xander in embarrassed shock before dropping to the blankets.  And staying there.

 _Ooookay, what the hell?  Since when is_ Spike _concerned about nudity?_   Xander grabbed up his bathrobe, shrugging it on while Spike discovered  _he_  was naked too, and pulled the covers tightly against his body.   _Mm, nice body.  No, bad Xander!_   Sitting on the far corner of the bed, Xander watched with growing amusement as Spike buried his face in his palms.

“We were drinking, yeah?” he asked.  “I remember that.  I remember we were splitting bottles and you were telling me all about. . .shit.”  The quiet pain in the expletive told Xander’s shriveling ego that he wasn’t talking about Xander’s lack of experience with a real, live male.  Or a real, undead male.  Spike was remembering Tara.

 _I didn’t realize he liked her so much,_  Xander mused, propping his head on his fist, elbow digging into his thigh.   _Not that he_ dis _liked her but. . . actually, I thought he only cared about her in a make-smarmy-cracks-about-lesbians-way.  Which, admittedly, I did too._

It still hurt to think about the shy girl.  “Hey,” he said quietly.  “I’m gonna go shower.  Go back to sleep if you want, I know this is early for vampire hours.  There’s a tv in the living room and no windows so you should be okay if you wanna do that.  If you want something from the kitchen, wait till I’m out, okay?”

Spike angled his head about five degrees, enough to peek over now-steepled fingers.  “You’re not throwing me out?”

“I invited you in; why would I throw you out?  You can have the shower after me.”

Xander went back to the bathroom, trying to ignore the way he was reacting to the dumbfounded and wondrous expression the vampire was sporting.  A robe was  _not_  a good cover— _and why the hell is_ this _Spike getting my motor running?  Not that old Spike didn’t too.  The man is gorgeous and I’m comfortable enough with my own sexuality to admit it.  Eh, maybe it’s just because I haven’t been laid in a while._

Once the water was hot, he tilted his head back to let the spray cascade over his entire body.   _Mm, water.  Clean is good._   He commenced with the ritual scrubbing, feeling obscurely disappointed that he was rubbing Spike’s smell off of him.  What he’d done with the vampire last night. . .

 _Solace._

It had taken a while, but sometime over too many awkward discussions with Anya and Buffy, he’d figured out the why’s and the wherefore’s of his relationships.  Well, at least one aspect of them.  The basic element he’d come across, the one that had floored him and let him trust Spike even before he really processed the information about the soul—Spike was a rival.

He wasn’t older like Giles.  He wasn’t exclusive like Riley, or Oz.  Those two had made their intentions very clear early on, and while Xander may have pursued both of their chosen girls at one time or another, he  _hadn’t_  considered himself to be a rival to  _them._

 _Or at least,_  he amended, remembering his reaction to Riley,  _not for very long._

He was the one viable male, surrounded by a sea of gorgeous women.  The knowledge that both Buffy and Anya had turned to  _Spike_  instead of  _him_. . . that even ‘gay now’ Willow had admitted to having the hots for the bleached vampire. . . it was a huge blow to his ego and his self esteem.  He was Xander the pure, the good hearted, the good boyfriend.  And the evil undead bloodsucker scored with his girls more than he had.

It wasn’t logical.  It was base and petty and cruel to the later incarnation of Spike, especially given the summer of tentative camaraderie.  But it was the way Xander  _felt._

The realization had blindsided him after a long session with Buffy.  He’d been anticipating it for days, preparing himself like it was a date—but when he left, he’d felt disappointed and frustrated and  _angry._   He’d pummeled an innocent punching bag until out of the sweat and mindless ranting, it had finally clicked.  He’d been waiting for Buffy.  It was his turn, now; he’d been good and he’d waited.  He was human and nice and everything girls said they wanted in a boyfriend and it was  _his turn_  to get the girl he’d always loved and lusted after.  Even though he’d convinced himself that his love was a brotherly one—and it  _was_ —the adolescent male in him had stood up to attention and said ‘me, now’.

He still didn’t have her.

That night he went out and got  _really_  drunk.

He didn’t like what this knowledge said about him.  He didn’t like how it had effected every relationship with another male, up to and including Giles.   _Which is just plain eww, and I’m not thinking about that.  Not.  Can’t make me._

So now he was beginning again.  He was erasing the Spike-as-Rival part of his brain, and just looking at Spike-as-Vampire.  It wasn’t full-proof, there was too much history between the two of them, but right now he was going to give him the benefit of the doubt until Spike gave him a reason not to.

 _Which doesn’t explain why you slept with him last night.  Oh, it’s nice rationalization, but it’s not why you did it.  It’s cause every female in your life has wanted Spike, two of the most important have_ had _him, and you’re jealous._

As he scrubbed his hair like he could scrub out his mind, he decided that wasn’t exactly true, either.   _Solace._   Anya had stressed it, again and again, hoping that Xander would understand.  Eventually, he did.  Saying no to marriage meant the same as saying no to  _Anya_ , even if he hadn’t realized it at the time.  She’d been broken in the most dramatic way possible, ripped away from the foundations she’d built her humanity on.

 _And we said Spike was the monster._

She hadn’t turned to Spike to get back at Xander.  He had known that as soon as he saw Spike that the vampire wasn’t even going to  _try_  and fight.  Anya probably hadn’t even cared that it  _was_  Spike, not by the time she was that drunk.  He was nice to her, sympathetic the way the rest of the Scoobies couldn’t bring themselves to be.  Kind.  Gentle.  And he hurt just like she did.

Anya’s voice floated up from an aching memory.   _“Solace, Xander.  It’s what two people in pain do together to try and ease that pain.”_

Spike had looked so fragile, tucked up against the wall like  _Xander_  was going to hurt him.  So lonely.  So  _hungry._   The pain had shone through so clearly that Xander had ached for him, and wanted to try and help.

 _“. . . what two people in pain do together. . .”_

He didn’t look it, he knew.  The girls thought he was fine whenever he did see them.  But he wasn’t.  He wasn’t even close to fine.  Maybe a lot of it—okay, most of it—was his fault but he still  _hurt._   It was only natural to want to stop hurting, at least for a little.   _Not even Deadboy brooded_ all _the time.  Can’t I get a little slack?  Just a little bit of—oh, shit._

Finishing his shower, he hurriedly dried and dressed himself.  Stumbling out of the shower, he heard the tv playing quietly in the living room.  Wincing at the chalky face that he could see in the mirror, Xander dug up his bedroom cross and stake—a good Slayerette learned to be like the boy scouts: always be prepared.

Spike was stretched out on the sofa, watching a cooking show— _a_ cooking _show?_ —with the air of someone who wasn’t actually seeing anything outside of his own skull.  “Spike?”

“Yeah, mate, I—ah.”  Spike finished sitting up much slower, pulling his unbuttoned shirt around himself reflexively.  He was wearing just the shirt and his jeans, no shoes or socks.  It looked adorable.   _Bad, bad Xander.  Ogle later._   “Right then,” Spike said quietly.  “Truce over, is it?  Well, then, thanks for the memories.  How d’you want me?”

“Thanks for the—sex, Spike.  We had sex.”  Spike blinked at him and for a minute Xander could see the beginnings of the smirking ‘yeah, and?’ face the vampire had perfected.  “Sex, like perfect happiness?” Xander clarified impatiently.  “The plan?  Get idiot-boy to screw the soul out of you, so you can revel in all your unchipped glory?”

It was scary to listen to laughter that sounded like sobs.

Xander realized he was still holding the cross up in front of him.  He let it drop but he  _didn’t_  let go of the stake.  He had no ideals— _illusions?_ —about his ability to fight, but he was damned well going to  _try._   “Okay, right, you’re going to kill me  _after_  the hysterical laughing jag?”

“Not gonna kill you, boy,” Spike said eventually.  He was making little hiccup-y gasps, sounding  _exactly_  like a child that’s cried too much.  “Not gonna stop you, either.”  Blue eyes shot up to meet his, holding them steadily.

 _Damn.  He really means it._   Spike lied like a rug, but he  _wasn’t_  actually a sociopath.  If you knew what to look for, you could determine veracity—and Spike was letting him judge for himself.   _And suddenly feeling a rather large wiggins attacking me.  Sitting might be a good idea._

“You really have a soul?  Still?”

“Yeah.”  The creaky voice didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing, yet, but it was a  _had_  thing.   _That made no sense.  I need a drink._

“Well, of course,” he babbled as he moved towards the kitchen.  “Not like one night with Xander the Slut is going to give you perfect happiness.  Do you need a woman for that?  Or am I just so—”

“No, you don’t.” 

Xander turned, not understanding which comment the words were directed to—until the bottle was ripped roughly from his hands.  “You get coffee.  You want sommat in it, add milk and sodding sugar.”

“Spike.”   _Keep very, very calm.  There is no reason to bite the vampire’s head off.  Wait a minute.  There are_ hundreds _of reasons to bite the vampire’s head off!_   “Give that back, now.”

“Or what?  You gonna hurt me?  Do whatever the hell you like, but you don’t touch one drop o’this.”

“And who the fuck are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?” Xander demanded, knowing even as his face turned red that he was acting irrationally.  “This is my home, Spike.  You don’t like how I do things, there’s the door, don’t let your ash drift back inside!”

“You want me to go, I’ll go.”  How was Spike staying so calm?  Xander made a few lumbering grabs, the lithe, liquid body in front of him dodging easily.  “But I’m taking this with me.”

Xander relaxed, instinctively glancing towards the right—and realized his mistake.  “What the  _fuck?!”_  he screeched when Spike skirted a puddle of sunshine to open the correct cabinet.  Faster than Xander could even see, the bottles were in a snatched-up plastic bag and tossed out the window.

The clink, crash, sploosh sound almost covered up the hiss and sizzle.

Deep, deep breaths.   _Soul, not chip.  Soul, not chip.  He can_ hurt _you Xander.  Think!  Why isn’t he?_   He wasn’t a moron.  He  _wasn’t_  and he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t recognize what was happening.  But  _why_  was it happening?  “Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“No one.  I’m not your friend, and I’m not someone you respect.”  The  _pain_  in that sentence floored Xander.  “But I’ve been where you are.  I’ve been the boy who wanted his prick of a father to just leave off, and I’ve been the man who wondered how he became what he hated. . . so quickly.”  Smoke floated gently in the air between them.  “That was  _before_  I was turned, Xander.  You may hate William the Bloody, but William the Git was a good man.”

There were tears in the utter conviction and heart wrenching sincerity when Xander finally lifted his head.  “A good man?”

Spike nodded, gently herding them both back into the living room.  “He was a ponce.  Genteel and refined and all the things men weren’t supposed to be.  He thought himself weak and ineffectual.  Bit of a nerd.  Total sap.  But he knew right from wrong and he always tried to do right.”

“Tried?”  Spike’s accent was changing.  Not a lot, and the guttersnipe speech-patterns remained, but now he was hearing  _Giles’_  accent.   _Wiggy!_

“Wasn’t perfect, was he?  Tried his best, though.  Even succeeded sometimes.  He  _was_  weak, specially when it came to love.  That was his Achilles heel.  Spent so much time daydreaming that he was never really in the world around him.  He—well, he was a ponce.”

Spike was coming back to himself; it was  _visible_  the change from the rather sweet human he’d been describing to the hard-edged vampire Xander was used to.   _One more time, for those who missed the first two: major, major wiggins!_   “So if William was so great, how come he got bit?”

“Cause he  _wanted.”_   Spike held his eyes for another second before rising and heading back to the kitchen.  Rummaging around in the refrigerator, he pulled out various ingredients.  “Now, if I’m not about to be shoved out the door, mind closing the blinds?  Ash in coffee is never tasty.”

Spike’s hand was burned.  Xander could see it from the sofa, red on the edges, blackened in the center.  It smelled horrible, all sickly sweet mixed in with choking char.  Spike ignored his injured hand and continued doing what he could without approaching the sun-spots.  It wasn’t much.

“Yeah, sure.”  Blinds closed, there were still stray patches that Spike had to be wary of, but he could actually do what he needed to.  Which was make a pot of coffee and start making eggs.

“Sunnyside up or scrambled?” he asked quietly.  “And mind telling me what the whole ‘stake the vamp’ bit was about?”

“Huh?  Oh.  Scrambled, please.  With ketchup.”  Spike made a face above the stove, but didn’t comment otherwise.  The ticking of a clock was the only sound, until, “I thought maybe the curse was broken.  After—last night.”

Spike gave a short bark of laughter, pulling out a plate to dump the eggs onto.  Another face as he handed over the ketchup bottle and began fixing two cups of coffee.  “Not hardly.”

 _Thanks, Spike.  Because_ every _guy loves to be told that he sucks in bed.  Um. . . in the opposite of good way, not the slurpy double entendre and I_ really  _don’t want to think about this anymore._   “So that’s good, right?  Soul still all there and keeping you not-homicidal?”  The eggs were really good.

“Y’know, that looks a lot like blood all over the eggs,” Spike pointed to the ketchup.  “Nope, still disgusting.  And I’m not cursed.”

“Not—um, I’m confused.  Okay, Spike, story time.”

“Didn’t I just tell you all about William the Moronic?”  The twisted bitterness made Xander look up.

“You took away my alcohol, Spike.”

“Made you brekkie, too.”

“Story, Spike.  Now.  When last we saw you, you were—” Xander couldn’t continue, struck dumb at the visual before him.

Spike knew what he’d done.  The mix of emotions was easy to read: sorrow, despair, pain, hatred, and the  _visible_  knowledge that he wasn’t ever going to be forgiven.  Even if certain parties  _tried_. . . he’d never forgive himself.

The same shattered look on Willow’s face when he’d cupped it to kiss her forehead.

“What happened?”

“Wasn’t a demon.  Wasn’t a man.”  Deep, ragged breath and Xander saw his hand twitching, probably in need of a cigarette.   _If I had one, I’d give it to you,_  Xander thought.  “Went and made it worse.”

“Worse?”

“Africa.  Grabbed the monkey’s paw.  Told some demon I wanted to ‘be like I was before’.”

“To be like you—Spike, you  _idiot!”_   With a disgusted snort, Xander gulped down most of his coffee.  It was good, with the right amount of milk in it.  Could do with some sugar, though.  Reaching over to the small crockery, he demanded, “How many years old are you, vampire?  You haven’t ever heard of ‘be careful what you wish for’?”

“Have.  Did.”

“Well, obviously you—oh.”  He really wasn’t stupid.  Most of the time.  “You  _wanted_  it?  But. . . why?”

Spike toyed with the salt shaker, apparently finding the ceramic high-heeled shoe with a matching pink bow —he  _had_  to get rid of those—fascinating.  “Chip wasn’t enough.  Wouldn’t ever be enough, cause. . . the monster was too strong.  No one could see past it—even me.”

“But—Spike, asking for a  _soul?_   That’s insane!  Where were you going to go?”

“That’s the point!”  The explosion of volume rocked Xander back into his seat.  Cursing, Spike began pacing in agitation.   _“This_  is my home, Xander.  It has been for five years.  How the hell was I going to stay here, after  _that?”_   The word was spat out with such loathing that Xander physically recoiled.  “Didn’t want to leave.  Where was I gonna go, chipped though I was?  Angel?  Not hardly.  He’s got his own bloody life, and he’s welcome to it.  I was chipped and helpless the rest of the world over, but I—I couldn’t—”

“You couldn’t stay.”  Not because Buffy might stake him—that was an empty threat and everyone knew it.  Buffy wouldn’t stake him, not even after  _that._   But he’d be ostracized.  What limited contact he did have with them, it’d be cut off, completely.  No more late-night patrols, no more research snooze-fests at the Magic Box, no more playing house with Dawn.  Just nothing.

What’s the worst thing you can do to a creature who has nothing but time?  Take away everything else.

Xander didn’t even try to offer the platitudes of ‘you’ll find somebody else’.  How could he?  Humans weren’t exactly queuing up to spend time with a chipped-vampire— _at least not ones I’d want outside a jail_ —and the demon community had made it quite clear that they’d as soon as stake Spike as look at him.

“I—I’m glad you didn’t try and stake yourself again.”  Why he said that he’d never know. . . except that it was true.

Spike gasped out something about showering, practically running from the kitchen.

He finished his breakfast leisurely, opening the blinds to look down to the street as he washed up.  Eight nearly full bottles of various types of alcohol lay splashed out and broken on the ground like— _okay, ew, not finishing that analogy.  Can’t come up with anything that’s not really disgusting._

So what had he learned that morning?   _That I never should have woken up._   That a chipped, desperately lonely vampire was just as foolish as the heartbroken, desperately lonely human equivalent.  That even as a  _demon_  he’d been so torn up about what he’d almost done that he’d gone and done the one thing he’d sworn multiple times was worse than the Initiative and their chip.  That he’d known even as he did it that it wasn’t going to solve anything and might make things a lot worse.

That chipless-but-souled-Spike wasn’t going to let Xander become his father, or even  _William’s_  father, it seemed.  That he’d brave sunlight and potential staking to make sure that Xander. . .that Xander wasn’t going to make a mistake no one else could stop him from.  That his mouth was warm and soft and he sucked like a Hoover.  That he tasted like cream, felt like silk, and had cried himself to sleep on Xander’s chest.

It wasn’t even ten o’clock yet.


	3. Chapter 3

William loved showers.

Indoor plumbing  _did_  exist in the late nineteenth century, but it wasn’t anything like the current modern marvels, and had belonged exclusively to the extremely wealthy.  While related to those who were, William had not been even mildly wealthy and had considered himself fortunate on those rare occasions he was able to use such lavish, hedonistic luxuries.

If Spike didn’t stop him, he’d spend all day letting scalding hot water cascade over their dead skin, warming it for at least a little.

William missed the sun.  He used to sit beside a small pond on his uncle’s estate—the one with servants who pitied the poor, penniless relation and allowed him what small pleasures they wouldn’t get in trouble for—and translate his burdens into horrible attempts at poetry.  Then, when even he grew tired of mangling the English language beyond hope of repair, he’d slump down against the tall elm he particularly liked and just doze.  Sometimes Anna, one of the elderly cooks who liked him, would leave him a small basket of bread and cheeses.  Occasionally there was even a bottle of wine, most often after Great-Uncle Harold went on one of his rampages and began going through and discarding the vintages he suddenly considered ‘worthless’.

William wondered if his great-uncle realized what a tidy sum a few lucky servants made, selling off the suddenly undrinkable bottles.

Not that it mattered now, of course.

Spike sighed, chuckling when William tried to choke on abruptly inhaled water.  His skin was turning pink under the intense heat, borrowed blood bubbling to the surface to make him look, for a few, all-to-brief moments anyway, human again.

 _Is that what I wanted?_  he wondered, soul and demon having tossed this question back and forth between them often once sophisticated thinking became possible again.   _Did I want to be human?_

Surprisingly, it was the soul that was most vehement in its denials.  William. . . William had hated his weakness, his ineffectuality, his inability to be anything people wanted him to be.  For all the demon’s faults, William— _Spike_ —was not weak anymore.  Yes, there were limitations, not the least of which was the soul’s new influence, but Spike had control over his life and the ability to take care of himself when the control vanished.

Not that becoming human would have rendered him abruptly powerless, of course.  It was his experience, his confidence, and his hard-won skill that the soul truly admired—for they were admirable features.  Well, admirable until one looked at how those traits had been applied, at least.  The soul was becoming very good at ignoring what it wanted to.  Then too, William was definitely happy that if it came to a fight he could now physically defend himself.

William  _liked_  not needing to depend on anyone to take care of him.  Liked it so much, that Spike—or the personality that had existed the last few decades—was wondering just how bloodthirsty and, well,  _evil_  he’d been when he was human.

 _Supposed to be broody now,_  he thought morosely.   _Don’t wanna be, but. . . I_ am _the only other souled vampire in existence, should follow the bloody leader, then, shouldn’t I?_   Except he’d never followed any leader, even when he was desperately attempting to.

The problem was that  _William_ , the soul,  _his_  soul, hadn’t done those things.  The  _demon_  had, while the soul languished wherever it had been.  So while he was alternatively horrified and regretful that they had  _occurred_. . . he couldn’t really feel guilty.  Not when guilt was truly a wasted emotion for those who were long dead, generations of their loved ones having already joining them in the earth.

It was different with the Scoobies.

He  _knew_  them.  He knew who they were and how he’d hurt every single one of them.  And how they’d hurt  _him._   Worse, the soul couldn’t blame those hurts on a bloodthirsty demon.  The chip had caged it, muted it, which had left the soul without the precious armor it had created; by denying the demon’s basic wants and needs, the personality that had always been too human had changed.  Drastically.  He was just _Spike_  now, just. . . normal.  Oh, the devil to the left was more bloodthirsty and violent than most, and the angel to the right had been silicon and a blond-haired beauty, but the result had been the same.

Spike had been placed in a unique position to  _grow up._   And, in many ways, he had.  Which meant that when the soul viewed his most recent memories, there was no distance between _the demon_  and  _Spike._   There was no biological imperative to rationalize events once Spike had fully accepted the chip.  They were  _his_  actions and he couldn’t blame them on the demon.  The crushing guilt and horror he’d expected to feel?  Forget about his long-dead victims.  Remember, instead, when he had tried to sell out the Scoobies to Adam, when he had tried to force Red into casting him a love spell—or when he had tried to bite her outright, when he had tied up Buffy to make her love him, when he had tried. . .

 _Notice a lot of ‘tried and failed’ there?_

Didn’t matter.  For  _that_  his insides would clench and tears would burn, unshed, in his eyes.  For those memories, those hurts, he’d feel wave after wave of choking, oppressive guilt.

For the first time, he understood how horrible it was for Angel.  To desperately want forgiveness, redemption. . . freedom.  And to know that even if he were to be forgiven by every last one of his victims, intentional or not. . . he’d never forgive himself.

Never be free.

He’d tried to prepare for it, knowing that he really had nowhere else to go.  His demon still considered Sunnydale ‘home’ and his soul made him want to  _try_  and fix what he’d broken.  Twisting over every situation, every possible permutation of how his arrival would be taken. . . he’d never expected this.  Not even in his wildest fantasies, filled with the romantic idealism the soul couldn’t let go of, could he have imagined Alexander “I Hate All Demons” Harris welcoming Spike into his home.  Taking him into a bed warmed with a mortal’s heat and scent.  Giving, but, more importantly,  _accepting_  pleasure.  Telling him, the evil creature who had tried so hard to destroy everything the human had ever loved, that he was glad that Spike had come back.

Spike.  Not the soul.

 _“I—I’m glad you didn’t try and stake yourself again.”_

Not because he was a fundamentally good person who believed that suicide was wrong.  Not because it was the easy way out and he wanted Spike to suffer.  Not because it was the ‘right thing’ to do.

There had been understanding and sympathy in the warm, husky voice.  The clear knowledge that Xander  _knew_  how delicious suicide would have been, how it would be so  _easy_  to rationalize it as a sacrifice to those who clamored for blood-vengeance.  He knew that it was both the easiest and hardest way out of a problem that had no easy solutions.  He knew how attractive that sweet, sweet oblivion was, and how hard you had to work to get up and keep going, day after day.

It wasn’t the understanding, the sympathy, or the automatic politeness that had driven Spike out of the room.

It was the caring.

Spike braced himself against the wall, pushing his face under the spray and mentally reminding the soul that no, he  _didn’t_  have to breathe, so stop panicking, please.  There had been a wondering, confused quality to it, but Spike had heard it nonetheless.  The words had been prompted by gratitude—because Xander didn’t want to lose a—

 _Bollocks!_   The old human fear and insecurity, made cruel and rough with the demon’s voice, cut off that final word with a growl of derision.   _He’s your bloody_ enemy _, vampire, an’ he always will be.  Forget this nice act now, soon or later he’s gonna remember that little fact.  Remember Xander, the one who_ always _wanted Angel dead—even before he turned into Psycho-Vamp?  The one who called you a waste of space, an’ not even ‘kinda naughty’ once you were as scary as a fluffy little kitten?  You_ remember _that,_ vampire? _Cause he does.  Yeah, you let him be nice now.  Soak that up with the self-righteous new toy you have, but you don’t ever forget that he_ hates _you.  That he’ll stake you, an’ soon, rather than let his pack get hurt.  But don’t think he_ likes _you.  Don’t think he_ cares _about you._

 _Don’t you dare think he’s your soddin’_ friend.

Spike breathed deeply, wishing it could still be as cleansing as the soul remembered it to be.  He’d never lost his memories of William, something Angelus had used against him often enough, but with the return of the soul they were much clearer.  Much sharper.

Much more painful.

William had been virtually friendless.  Those he did consider his friends probably hadn’t reciprocated the feeling.  He’d been the oddball his whole life; with a name that got him places, but without the money to keep him there.  He’d attended college—St. Matthew’s at Cambridge—and had done very well, but becoming a professor was unbecoming to one of his class back then and he hadn’t the skills or wherewithal to set himself up in a more respectable business.  So, without any other options, he’d been apprenticed to his cousin’s accounting firm.  It paid decently enough, since he was family, but it lowered his social standing to the point where he became a laughingstock.  Add in his penchant for horrid poetry and a rose-colored way of looking at the world. . .

 _Time to move on, then,_  he decided.   _Get my kit, see if there’s sewer access around here and get back to the crypt._   Not his old crypt, but a newer, smaller one he’d chosen his first night back.  It had none of the amenities he’d worked so hard to find, just a cold stone slab for a bed and the smell of death and decay.   _Maybe pick up a bottle or two on the way back._   Hopefully, the alcohol fumes would successfully overload his senses so he wouldn’t be remembering the warm, slightly citrus smell that he currently couldn’t get out of his head.

A knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts, a chill blast of air as a dark head popped through the opening door.  “Hey, Spike?  It’s been almost an hour.  You okay in there?”

“Yeah, mate,” he called, once again reminding the soul that  _no_ , his heart was not racing a mile a minute in surprise and sudden fear.

His heart wasn’t doing anything.

“Ow!”  Spike whirled, grabbing the wall to keep from slipping, at the sudden cry of pain.  “Damn, Spike, what’d you do—pipe water in directly from hell?  That’s  _hot!”_

Xander’s shadowy form was outlined against the curtain, inches from the shower itself.  Certainly close enough to feel an occasional splash of water that escaped said curtain.  “Oh.  Right.  Sorry.  Like the heat, s’all.  I’ll, uh, I’ll get you some dosh, if you like,” he offered nervously.  “F’r the landlord an’ all.”

Hurriedly, he finished soaping his body and rinsed off.  Told himself yet again that no, he was  _not_  upset about losing the boy’s scent.

 _Not a boy anymore,_  he told himself as he ducked under the spray one last time.   _Not a full man yet, no, but close now.  Close to breaking, too._

The forlorn, empty expression as they both watched a full bag sail down four stories. . .

A towel was thrust past the curtain the minute the water shut off.  Roughly scrubbing his hair, he wrapped it around his waist. . . and waited.  “Uh, you gonna, um. . .”

“I’m not going to jump you, Spike.”  And Spike didn’t even attempt to analyze that because there was no  _possible_  way he heard what he’d thought he’d heard.  None at all.   _It was just a pity fuck,_  he told himself as he reluctantly pushed back the curtain and stepped outside.  Xander was leaning against the sink, watching him speculatively.   _He was lonely an’ I was there.  Nothing more._

But, oh, did the boy look utterly delicious, lounging casually against the porcelain sink.  Tight white t-shirt, the kind he’d never worn in public, at least not that Spike had ever seen.  Loose sweat pants riding low on his hips, allowing just a hint of a dark, curly trail of hair against warm, sun-bronzed skin. . .

Spike looked at his own pale, too-skinny body and tried not to grimace.  The nice flush he’d worked up from heating his non-circulating blood was fading as he watched, leaving him with hardly any pigmentation at all.   _Yeah, like he’d want this._

“You want me to throw those in the washer?”  Xander followed him back into the bedroom, where he’d tossed his clothes, and watched while Spike stared at his jeans in distaste.  They were covered in grime, washing having not been a huge priority as he was hopping his way back from Africa, and then there was the brooding and the alcohol. . .

“Don’t have to go all out,” he said, instead.

“Spike, letting you use the washer and dryer downstairs is not ‘all out’.  Ordering  _blood_  for you might have been.”

 _What the—no way in fucking hell._   Forgetting about the towel covering not-so-much, Spike turned to stare at Xander in utter disbelief.  Yeah, the slightly embarrassed, sheepish look said it all.  “From who?” he asked.  His voice sounded strangled to his own ears.

“Giles used to have me go to one of the butchers.  I gave him a call and for an extra incentive, he was willing.  It should be here in an hour or two.”

Spike sat down on the bed.  “For an extra—”   He shook his head, staring at the floor and clenching his jaw.  Deep breath.  “How much do I owe you?”  His voice was better this time, but there was still that damned roughness to it.   _Sound like a git.  Sound like. . . a souled vampire who’s getting help from someone he should be getting a stake from.  Bloody hell._

“You don’t owe me anything.”

He had to laugh at that or else he’d be crying and he was so fucking tired of crying.  “Bullshit.  You don’t owe me anything but pain.”

“Right, cause I’ve been  _so_  nice to you.”  Folding his arms across his chest, Xander hopped up onto the dresser.  “Spike, when was the last time you ate?”

 _Oh, fuck me.  What is this, turnabout is fair play?  Bullshit._   “Mother-hen isn’t really your style,” he said aloud.  “Might wanna work on the delivery a bit.  See if you can really get that note of sarcasm to work for you.”

“God, Spike, you’re such a guy sometimes.”  Sliding to his feet, Xander rummaged around in a few drawers, pulling out t-shirt, boxers, and another pair of sweats.  “Put these on, okay?  You’re distracting when you’re half-naked.”

Thank  _god_  vampires couldn’t blush.  “Wanker,” he muttered while tugging on the clothes.  They were ridiculously large, although the boy wasn’t nearly as husky as he’d been a few months prior.

“Okay, now you just look ridiculous.  Much better.  Come on, there should be some kind of game you’ll want to watch on.  I’ve got satellite.”

“Why?”

“Why do I wanna watch a game with you?  Well, there’s the whole problem of all my other friends being  _female_  and don’t understand what a touchdown is, let alone offsides.”

“Not sports, you arsewipe!  You slept with me.  You bought me  _blood_ , Xander—the stuff you ‘ewed’ about damned near continuously the  _last_  time we shared a flat?  I had a sodding invite here!”

The harsh sound of his own panting filled the room, blocking out the need for Spike to think.  He hadn’t meant to do that, to blow up like that.  He didn’t have the right anymore.  Besides, why exactly was he arguing?   Xander was offering a nice, comfortable way to pass the time with food, the possibility of a good argument over a game—although they’d watch Yank football over his undead body—and a chance to really clean up.

 _Because you’re a vampire and he’s a human.  You aren’t his chum, he’s just lonely and depressed._

The demon rose up and snatched the words away before the rest of him had a chance to do more than blink.  “You’re pathetic, boy.  What, Slayer won’t return your calls?  No bonding sessions over sappy chick-flicks and fruity drinks?  She finally see you for the loser you are and just throw her hands up?  Or better yet, is she  _jealous_  cos you did her job when Red went round the bend?  Yeah, I bet that’s it, the way she looks at you like you stole something from her, ripped out her bloody heart and—”

“That’s enough.”  Xander picked up Spike’s clothes and a bottle of detergent.  “You done now?”

“Yeah.”

“Go watch some TV.  I’ll go put these in.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, and Spike?”  A brief, hard look flashed over the forced calm.  “The closest sewer entrance is a hundred yards away and it’s a very sunny day out.  Don’t be gone when I get back.”

“Yeah.”

The implicit promise in Xander’s words terrified him.  To have answers from a member of the group that  _never_  gave him any information other than tiny drips and hints shook his new soul in its moorings.   _I should be leaving,_  he thought, as he slowly got to his feet.  The pants nearly fell off, but if he tied them tight they didn’t slip down too far.   _I should be risking the sun, running away like the coward I know I am._

Instead, he flipped channels.

It wasn’t more than ten minutes before Xander was back.  “So, did you find something?”

“No football.  S’too late, I guess.”

He could feel the puzzled look Xander gave him and the television both.  “Um. . . the ’Skins against the Eagles?  Looks like football to me.”

“That’s not football.   _That’s_  a perversion of a game that takes precision and skill until all that’s left is mindless beatings.”  He snuck a glance to his left, surprised to see the boy grinning in anticipation.   _Of what, the game?_   He looked at the mindless barbarism in front of him.   _Why on earth would he be excited about_ this?

“Yeah, yeah.  Lemme get some snacks.”  Crap was apparently plentiful in the Harris apartment and soon an array of chips, pretzels, dips, and various candies were spread out on the coffee table in front of them.  Xander slumped down comfortably next to him, handing him a soda.  Spike very carefully did not request a beer.

They watched the game in relative silence, commenting only on particularly good or bad plays.  Occasionally Xander would explain an odd ruling or why they were throwing the ball when the running game was clearly more effective.

“I came to a decision.”

The words were out of the blue, and for a second Spike thought they were directed at the television.  Certainly dark brown eyes never left it.  “’Bout what, then?”

“About everything.  About. . . my friends.  My enemies.  Who I hated and why.”

The Eagles scored a touchdown, the tinny sound of the enthusiastic crowd hissing in the background.  Spike sipped his soda and wished it was blood.  He was suddenly starving.

“I realized that I was a racist asshole.  You know I didn’t even know Anya had gotten her powers back until she told me?  She told me why she got you drunk, too.”

 _She wanted me to make a wish,_  Spike realized, closing his eyes tightly.   _She wanted me to curse Xander, when the only thing I could think about was. . . Buffy.  How much I hurt.  How nice it was to finally have someone who’d listen to_ my _side of the story._

“She’d been a demon for weeks, she said.  Since right after the. . . the wedding.  I never knew.  I never even guessed.  And then the whole thing with Willow. . . it was so  _easy_  to forgive her.  She’s my best friend and I love her and of  _course_  I forgive her.  I’d forgive her anything.  And Anya hated me for that, because she had to work and scrape for acceptance from me.  So she said, anyway.”

Spike closed his hands into fists.  Xander wouldn’t appreciate his shoulder to cry on.  Besides, he needed to get  _out_  of there, not dig himself in deeper.  Soon as it was nightfall, he’d be gone.

“I did a lot of thinking.  Did a lot of drinking too, but that came after.  I realized some things about myself that I didn’t like so much and it. . . hurt.”  The Redskins fumbled a ball, the Eagles recovering it on the twenty yard line.  “She told me I was a hypocrite and she was right.  I was supposed to hate all demons—except the woman I still loved was a demon and I was meeting other demons who were about as evil as small puppies.  Clem’s fun, isn’t he?  So, I made a decision.”

Brief pause while another touchdown was scored.  The game had ridiculously high numbers but Spike couldn’t remember what they were.  All he could concentrate on was the low heat against his side and the pain that poured out of the human.

“I told Anya once that I take people at face value.  That I’ll listen to what they say and accept it.  So I’m going to do that.  Right now, you’re Spike.  You may be a vampire, but you haven’t actually tried to hurt us—any of us—in a long time.”

 _Harsh, whimpering pants, small hands struggling against him, the twist of hot flesh as he tore and ripped and took—_

“Hey.”  A large hand brushed against his face, catching the moisture there.  “She doesn’t hate you.”

“She should,” he whispered and he must have cried rivers in his too many years and oceans in this past year alone.  Jerking out of Xander’s grasp, he scrubbed at his face.

“Fine.  Other than that, you haven’t tried to hurt us in a long time.  In fact, you’ve helped us a lot.  And all we did was reject you.”

Tears forgotten, Spike stared at him, wide-eyed.   _No way.  No way in hell._

“Hit me enough times and I do eventually get it,” Xander joked.  “You tried and none of us let you succeed.  So I decided that I was going to take your actions—anybody’s actions—at face value.  If you try and hurt me or those I care about, then we’ll talk.  But for right now. . .”  Xander swallowed and looked him directly in the eye.  “I forgive you.”


	4. Chapter 4

Gobsmacked.  A nice, British term that he’d heard Spike use before.  Stunned.  Shell-shocked.  Floored.  Sandbagged.  Stupefied.  Baffled.  Mystified.  Flummoxed.  Cold-cocked.

Frightened.

Xander wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he’d been going for.  Hell, he wasn’t even when he’d decided to say what he’d  _said_ , so predicting the reaction of a recently-ensouled vampire wasn’t something he’d spent a great deal of time on.

He still hadn’t expected fear.

Adult men shouldn’t be able to widen their eyes to anime-size and they shouldn’t be able to exude the air of a boy who had just been told he was having Christmas for the first time.  Or maybe that he  _wasn’t_  going to get Christmas.  Xander wasn’t sure which, just that the expression was. . . wrong.

Nothing could do stillness like a creature that didn’t need to breathe.

Suddenly nervous, he jumped to his feet and headed towards the door.  “I’m gonna go check on your laundry, okay?  Be right back.”  He pulled the door closed quickly, not wanting to hear any attempts at a reply.  Not that he thought Spike could  _make_  a reply.

Rubber thunked on concrete as he clattered down the five flights to the basement laundry room.  He hated that room.  It smelled too much like fabric softener.

Someone—probably Laura from 311 who was so perkily cheerful and nice to everyone that Xander privately suspected she was on drugs, or demonic—had transferred his load to the dryer for him and there were only five minutes left.  He dug out the change he’d grabbed automatically before leaving and dropped it in the small bin attached to the wall.  Whoever had transferred the load would get it the next time they were down there.

Hopping up on ‘his’ dryer, Xander rested his jaw on his fists.  Inhaling deeply, lint and dust caught in the back of his throat with the words he’d managed to choke down at the last second.  Words like ‘accept my forgiveness’.  Words like ‘I’m sorry for hurting you.’  Words like ‘forgive me’.

Words he’d said to Anya a week ago.

Words she’d thrown back in his face.

Words that had driven him into a bottle he hadn’t been dragged out of until. . . until this morning, when a vampire decided that this son wasn’t going to join a long line of fathers who couldn’t cope without something to dull the edges and smooth over the rough patches. 

He really wanted a drink right now.

It probably hadn’t been such a good idea to leave Spike upstairs, he realized as he hopped off and began to pace.  Spike might run and since everything he’d said before still held true, there was a damned good chance that Spike would dust himself before reaching the tunnels.  Plus, Xander had just dropped a fairly large bombshell and Spike deserved someone to help him work through it.

Which was going to go over  _so_  well, given he had a hard-on the size of Texas in his sweats.

 _Can we just not think about how hot he looked, totally clueless, a little afraid and innocent, with my clothes hanging off that long, lean, pale—_

Okay, that was not helping get rid of his erection.

The whole shy-boy thing had hit him much harder than he’d imagined possible, especially with his penchant for blunt and aggressive.  True, snarky-Spike  _had_  worked him up a time or two before. . .  _but not like this,_  Xander decided as he continued pacing.   _Hell, not even Anya could get me_ this _worked up with no more than a look._

Then again, interaction with Anya mostly consisted of her deciding she wanted sex and him agreeing.

Xander wanted to fuck Spike.  He wanted to know what that tight coolness would feel like wrapped around him, how it would differ from the wetness of Spike’s mouth.  He wanted to know what Spike would feel like inside of him, too.  Would he feel like the didlos Anya had delighted in using on him?  Those had been cold, too, but they felt like plastic and he knew that Spike didn’t feel like—

The dryer beeped.

Groaning, Xander thought about every injury he’d ever had.  It wasn’t working.  Just knowing that Spike was still up there, probably in the same position, eyes huge and wide in that open face—

 _Just imagine the possibilities.  ‘Hey, Spike, forget about the whole evil-bastard/forgiveness thing.  Just turn around and let Daddy make it all better, okay?’   Or better yet, don’t turn around and let me fuck that mouth again.  And wow,_ that _worked._

Dick flaccid and a little disturbed at how easily the images had sprung to mind, Xander folded Spike’s clothes and trudged back up to his apartment.  Hopefully, the saccharine scent of fabric softener would mask any lingering traces of arousal.

He reached his door just as the elevator beeped and a kid not that much younger than him stepped out, carrying a small cooler.  Sighing, Xander finished opening the door and waved the kid over.  “Hang on,” he said and headed towards the kitchen, where his wallet currently lived.

Spike was in the exactly same position.

The rustling of money—perhaps the scent of blood?  Just because  _Xander_  couldn’t smell it through the cooler didn’t mean that super-vampire-senses couldn’t—finally got Spike to move a little.  “Hey—what—”

“I got this,” he said curtly, pulling out the appropriate number of bills.  Trading green paper for the cooler, the boy muttered a thanks and disappeared.  Hip-butting the door shut, Xander lumbered over to the kitchen and dumped the cooler on the table.  “Damn.  That was heavy!”

“No,” Spike was saying as he edged his way into the kitchen, “you didn’t—how much was it, I’ll pay you back—you shouldn’t’ve—”

“You don’t owe me anything.”  When did he turn into Giles, complete with ability to say nice things in a way that was mildly insulting if you thought about it too much?  “Consider this my way of apologizing.”

“Ap— _apolo_ —” Xander hid his grin while William—and this could only be William—tried to stutter and stammer his way past that word, eyes huge and looking as utterly scandalized as before.

 _And there goes my hard-on.  Dammit._   Mincing his steps carefully, Xander tossed most of the bags in the freezer, leaving out two to poke holes in before nuking them.  He knew vampires could smell arousal; too many painful conversations with Anya about the knowing looks Spike would occasionally toss them and why.  Hopefully the scent of warm, human blood would hide that.

 _Why exactly am I trying my damnedest not to let Spike know I have the hots for him?  I_ blew _him last night!_

It had been so easy last night, though, so natural to just give in to the alcohol-enhanced need.  To pull him up onto the bed, tugging off restrictive clothing while room-temperature hands had traveled over his skin, taking him into a mouth that wasn’t warm but was so much more powerful than what he was used to, taking him all the way down—

 _’Cause obsessing over this is so helpful for the not throwing Spike on the ground and—no!  Give into the feminine-side, Xander, and talk_ before _sex.  Talking?  That thing you do too much?  Do that.  Or, you know, pretend you’re a guy and just ignore it for a while._

Then _sex with the no-longer-evil undead._

Said formerly-evil undead was currently seated in the chair, waiting patiently with his hands folded together in his lap like a schoolboy, still looking more than a little shell-shocked.

Dumping the slightly thawed blood into one of his travel mugs, he watched the yellow light from the microwave and tried to think of something to say.  It was fun making the formerly arrogant vampire trip over himself the way  _Xander_  usually did—but not as much fun as he’d thought.   _Never did like kicking things when they were down.  And Spike’s pretty much down right now._

“How hungry are you?” he asked, suddenly realizing that he should’ve thought about this little consideration beforehand.  He wasn’t Spike’s nursemaid and Spike wasn’t an invalid.  He snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye: placid, empty expression of a little boy.   _Okay, I_ hope _he’s not an invalid._   “Should I make more than two?”

“No, thank you,” was the cultured reply.

“What were you like as a human?”  It was the only thing Xander could think to say, listening to a voice that now sounded more like Wesley than Giles.  Giles  _never_  sounded that stuffily proper, though, not even in the beginning when he was all Watcher Knows Best.  “You sound, um—”

“Educated, yeah.”  William’s voice, then Spike’s.   _Is he actually split?_  Xander wondered while he got out a spoon.  You had to stir the blood after heating it, or it would start to congeal almost immediately.   _Is this a real split personality or is this just. . . complicated?_

Xander was pretty sure regardless of what his amateur psychologist attempts could determine, ‘complicated’ would still win out.

“Educated like college?  What’d you major in?”

“Er, the equivalent, yeah.  And I. . . ”  Xander turned around, mug in hand, unsurprised at the horribly embarrassed expression on Spike’s— _William’s?_ —face.  His eyes were shading to gold as Xander watched.  “Um, literature.  Specifically poetry, but any kind of. . . I need to—can I—”

Setting the mug down on the table, Xander went into the living room to watch the last few minutes of the game.

He tried very hard not to listen to the choking sounds that accompanied greedy feeding.

When Spike rejoined him fifteen minutes later, the vampire was ashen-faced, his movements jerky with distress.  He could see tear-tracks down those startling cheekbones and knew from experience that the repeated, painful swallowing meant a large lump that didn’t want to go away.

Xander did his best to ignore the reaction, knowing that the last thing Spike wanted right now was sympathy.   _He was starving._   The too-tight shoulders, swimming in one of Xander’s smaller shirts, the ribs he remembered pressing up against his, all of it only confirmed what the agony beside him practically shouted.

William had refused to drink blood until he was literally starving.

 _Wonder why he drank it now,_  Xander mused as the game finally ended.  The last two minutes always took longer than the first quarter, what with time outs and commercial breaks.  Rising, he rummaged through his movie collection.  He’d had no plans for today, other than possibly going out and hitting the bars, so movies was a fine choice.  Maybe he’d clean his bedroom a little later.

“So what’re you interested in?” he queried as he scanned titles.  “We’ve got guns, explosions, porn, sappy chick-flicks the girls have left here. . . what tickles your fancy?”  No response, but Xander wasn’t particularly surprised.  He was pretty sure that the vampire’s mind was centered around a small plastic bag that currently lay empty in Xander’s garbage can.  “How about mindless explosions, huh?  Always good for a chuckle.”

Not even a ‘yeah, sure’ and Xander decided now would be a good time to start worrying.  Spike was  _never_  quiet.  The only time Xander could remember involved a grave and a little girl who looked like she wanted to jump into it.

Popping in ‘Independence Day’, he settled back onto the couch.  Spike remained perched on the very edge of the cushion, back towards Xander and barely able to see the television from that position.

 _Okay, so maybe the girlie-method might be best.  Cause the manly ‘ignore it and it might go away’ approach ain’t doing much._

“You gonna sit over there the whole movie?”

Spike started violently at Xander’s voice, almost falling off the couch entirely.  “Huh?  Oh, um, no, I—”

“Cause you look really uncomfortable,” Xander continued, ignoring the stammered protests and explanations.  “You’re my guest and I don’t really like my guests to be uncomfortable.”

“Your guest.  I’m. . . your guest.”

“No, actually you’re my friend.”   _Cool, calm, casual, I am Xander the Non-Offensive._   “But since it’s my home, that makes me the host and you the guest.  Am I being a horrible host or something?”

“No!  No, of course you’re not—I’m just—I’m just a bit off.  A bit.”

Which was  _pure_  William and that may not be a good thing.  “You want to watch something different?   _Do_  something different?”

A quick glance towards the door and Xander understood what Spike’s problem was.

 _Nope, not gonna happen.  Nu-uh.  See, I have this thing about wanting to help my friends.  Not exactly certain when you became one of ’em, but you need help.  So it’s Xand-man to the rescue!_   He was babbling, but that was okay, he was used to it.

Shifting closer, Xander carefully rested his hand on Spike’s too-thin shoulder.  “You’re shivering,” he said softly, struck by an intense desire to knead the vibrating muscles under his palm.  A human would have been in agony from the tension.  “Want a blanket?  Want a Xander-blanket?”

 _For lo, I am the king of seduction, well trained by “Wanna Go Make Out” Cordelia and “Wanna Interlock Parts” Anya._

Spike still hadn’t moved.

Xander sighed and drew little circles with his thumb.  “We don’t have to do anything,” he said.  “I just like holding people.  Remember from—”  _mention last night and he will run screaming for the door,_  “—all those meetings at the Magic Box?  Being the only guy with a group full of girls trains you to need the whole touchy-feely thing.  C’mon, Spike, relax a little.”

A hesitant nod met his words and Xander tried hard not to crow for joy.  Threading an arm around a much too narrow waist, Xander leaned gently against those tense muscles.  Spike sighed, making no move to push out from the embrace—but he didn’t relax into it, either.

The White House was being green-rayed into bits before Spike actually started to give in.  It remained awkward for a while, Xander unsure of how far he could push and Spike too tense to possibly be comfortable.  Gradually, though, the tension leaked out and they ended up spooned together comfortably.  Xander was drawing idle patterns on a taunt stomach with one hand, the other threaded with Spike’s, resting above their heads on the armrest.

He had no idea when they’d started holding hands, but he wasn’t about to mention it.  It was comfortable, like this.  They’d make occasional comments at the ridiculousness of the movie they watched, but otherwise it felt. . . very nice.  Watching movies with Anya had always included a running explanation that ended up destroying the movie, and he hadn’t felt comfortable movie watching with the whole gang since high school.

His fingers dipped lower.

Spike froze, but just as quickly relaxed.  “You want me, Harris?”

“Yeah.”  No use lying about it, not when his hard-on was pressed up against Spike’s ass.  “Doesn’t matter though.”

“Doesn’t it, then?”

“Nope.  Cause unless you want it, I’m just gonna lie here and watch Will Smith attempt to play something  _other_  than the Fresh Prince.  Which I’ve never seen.”

Spike grunted his agreement and watched quietly for a little longer.  “Really are a White Knight, aren’t you?”  Spike wasn’t referring to the casual reference to sex and Xander knew it.

“Hey, everybody’s got needs they don’t like admitting to.  You learn to deal with it and move on.”

“Drinking blood isn’t exactly a—”

“You’re a vampire, Spike.”  Said vampire quivered underneath his body and Xander sternly ordered his erection  _not_  to take that as encouragement.  It wasn’t.  “Vampires drink blood, fact of life—er, unlife.”

“Vampires are an abomination.  Not quite demon, not quite human, just—”

“God, Spike, you are the  _last_  person I’d peg for overanalyzing things.  You’re a vampire.  A pretty wussy one, too.  So you have to drink blood, so what?  So long as you aren’t hurting anyone, why the hell should it matter?”

“A  _wussy_  one?”  Spike flipped himself around, nose almost brushing against Xander’s they were so close.  “I am not a wussy vampire!”

“Yeah, you are.”  Xander gave him a cheeky grin, not the least disturbed about a chipless vampire in his arms.  There was nothing frightening about Spike and if he was truthful about it, there hadn’t been for a long time.

Which had nothing to do with Spike’s actual ability to hurt anything.

“I was blood and death for a hundred years, Harris.  I’ve killed more than you can possibly imagine.”  It was  _so_  easy to rile Spike up, since there wasn’t a trace of William’s guilt about those deaths in the outraged pride.  “If it wasn’t for the damned chip—and now this soul—”

“You’d still be a wussy vampire.  How many people did you kill when you were in Sunnydale?  Really, no bragging, no posturing, just the truth.  How many?”

“We gonna include the ones Dru an’ I killed for each other?”  Xander nodded and Spike’s eyes grew distant.  “Less then twenty, then.  Probably no more’n ten or fifteen.  Vamps are kinda like the larger predators—lions and such.  We don’t need to eat every day, so long as we gorge pretty good when we do eat.”

“See?  Wussy vamp.  Cause I know for a fact that Angelus killed a lot more than that while he was playing King of the Jungle.”   _And go me for being calm about this.  These people are dead, I couldn’t do anything to save them, and the Spike in front of me now is not the Spike that did these things.  There’s a difference and I am going to repeat this until I believe it._

“Harris.  What the hell are you talking about?  I was a vampire.  I killed.  I enjoyed it.”  The gleam of blue eyes so close to his own warned Xander that all was not happy underneath the bleached hair.  If he wanted to recapture the easy feeling between them, he was going to have to get his point across, and soon.

“Not was, Spike.  Are.  Have been since before the turn of the century.  But even when you were a common vampire without a chip, a soul, or broken legs, you still didn’t kill that much, did you?  And once you  _were_  chipped, you stopped completely.”

“Yeah, well, searing pain will do that to a bloke.”

“Not what I mean.  You didn’t hurt  _anyone.”_

“Not true!”  Xander almost grinned Spike’s continued outrage.  Not even a hint of William in there.  “Messed with your minds, I did.  Even got you lot to all start hating each other, didn’t I?”

“We were messed up before you even opened your mouth, Bleachy.  You took advantage of it, and please note that I never said that you stopped being the greedy bastard I know you are.  But you stopped  _hurting_  us.  Even after you found out you could hurt demons, you didn’t hurt us.”

“I hated you.”  Spike was staring at his collar and if Xander hadn’t kept his grip strong and sure, Spike would’ve been off the sofa and out the door in a flash.

“So did I.  And whenever there was a chance for me to make you miserable, I took it.  Just like you.”  While Spike was contemplating that, Xander moved his body just a  _little_  bit closer, forcing Spike to look back up.  “The only difference, Spike, is that eventually you  _stopped._   I never did.”

Intelligent blue eyes bored into his.  “That’s what you meant.  Before.”

“Yeah.  You deserving it—and you probably did—has nothing to do with it.  I was wrong.”

“Get that.”  The frown hadn’t faded though.  “Don’t get why you think I’m a wussy vamp—”

“Can I kiss you?”

“What?”

Men’s lips weren’t supposed to be soft.  They were supposed to be hard and demanding and surrounded by stubble—Anya always complained about that.  But Spike’s were soft and so gentle against his own.  Xander bit down on the fuller lower lip, moaning when jerking hips brought a hardened erection to brush against his own.

“You taste like toothpaste,” he muttered, pushing his tongue into the willingly opened mouth.  “Thought you’d taste like tobacco.”  Spike groaned as Xander slid his hands underneath those baggy sweats to cup and fondle at the vampire’s balls.

“Had to—the blood—”  Warm kisses over those incredible cheekbones before moving to nibble on a neck that flexed and moved under his lips and tongue.  “Xander—you shouldn’t—”

“Shouldn’t what, sleep with you?  Pretty much too late, since we did last night.”  A few tugs got the horribly oversize shirt off and Xander attacked tiny pink nipples, already taut and waiting.

“No—please, stop!”

Spike  _never_  begged.

Xander was immediately off the vampire, crouching on the floor while Spike scrambled to the other end of the sofa.  Spike was panting, his eyes wide and wild as he shook his head back and forth.  “I can’t.  I can’t do this.”

“Why not?  I’m not—I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, I just—can’t.  I won’t—I won’t be that for you.  Did it twice, now.  Won’t again.”

Xander shook his head, trying to get his body to focus on what he was hearing instead of the steady mantra of  _want Spike, want Spike now_.  “Did what twice, now?”

“Anya slept with me to forget about you.  B—Slayer to forget how much she hurt.  I won’t—I won’t be used again.”

The  _pain_  in those eyes and Xander realized that he’d done exactly that.  Treated Spike like a thing, a whore bought with a little comfort and a few bags of blood.

At least, that’s what it could  _look_  like.

“Spike, Spike look at me.”  Was William in there?  Did it matter if he was?  Should Xander say something differently to appeal to both?   _Does Xander the babble-king know how to say something eloquent and pretty to do these things?  Nope, not even a little bit._   “I’m sorry.  I never meant to make you feel like that.  I’m not trying to use you.  I don’t  _want_  to use you.  But I do want you.”

“You want sex,” was the abruptly harsh answer.  “That’s all you want.  Go back t’the demon-girl and you’ll be—”

“Miserable beyond belief.  It’s  _over_  between us, Spike.  I know that.  I’ve made my peace with that.  I don’t want someone who doesn’t want me back.  I kinda thought you did.”  Sitting down completely, Xander rubbed his temples.  He needed a  _drink!_

“No more alcohol!”  The hard voice startled Xander into looking up again.  The arrogant Spike he hadn’t seen for a long, long time stared back down at him.  “You’re thirsty, have some water.”

“Wha—shit, I said that out-loud?  Sorry.  Didn’t mean to.  And I know, I know, no more drinking.  Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that it isn’t just about the sex, okay?  I’m not trying to use you.  Or  _be_  used.”

Spike studied him a moment before giving a short nod.  Some of the ‘William look’, the confused, frightened naivete, faded and Spike, the real Spike, looked to be in full control again.  “You do want sex, though.”

“Of course I want sex; I’m male and it hasn’t been  _that_  many years since linoleum turned me on.  Not the point, though.”  Spike didn’t object when Xander climbed back onto the couch, which was hopefully a good sign.  “I’m  _not_  trying to use you, Spike.  You don’t want me, fine.  We finish watching the movie, we have dinner, and then we see what we want to do tonight.  You up for some patrolling maybe?”

Groping around for the remote, he purposefully ignored Spike and gathered his own thoughts.   _Okay.  Jumping the vampire was a bad idea.  Don’t try that again.  Good thing he didn’t hurt me._   Xander watched the movie speed backwards as he rewound to the last scene he remembered, suddenly struck by how significant that was.   _He didn’t hurt me.  At all.  I was—I was practically forcing him, he’s chipless, and he didn’t hurt me._

Sneaking a glance to the right he saw Spike slouched down on the farthest end of the sofa, the very casualness of his posture screaming confusion.  “You bought me blood.”

 _And we’re still talking.  That’s good!_   Only a few more hours until sundown, and Xander didn’t know what he’d do if Spike bolted at sunset.   _Did I realize I was this lonely before?_   “Yeah, well.  When was the last time you ate?”

Spike had to think about that far too long for comfort.  “Kenya, I think.  Maybe Morocco.  A c—” his voice dropped down to nothing, “A cat.”

 _He got desperate,_  Xander understood.   _He was starving and got desperate and drained the first animal he could catch._ “You have to eat,” he said aloud.  “Starving yourself isn’t going to solve anything.”

“Can’t—god, maybe I am a wuss of a vampire.  S’what made Dru leave, really.  Stopped hunting as much as I used to down in Brazil and suddenly she was carryin’ on with anything that gave her a wink.  Said I wasn’t demon enough for her.  Hadn’t ever been, but. . . used to be no Angelus to make her remember it.”

Xander held his breath.

Leaping to his feet, Spike began to pace back and forth.  “Damn William.  Screwed up bein’ a human, screwed up bein’ a vamp, and all that’s left is this. . .this fucking mess.  D’you know how much it hurts to eat now?”  Blue eyes flickered over toward brown before returning to the carpet.  “Tastes like crap.  Even the stuff you got me, which is damned good quality, tastes like—like pain.  Cause it is.  I tried to hunt, after I woke up.  After I realized that I had this  _thing_  in m’head.  Went after a pretty little thing, the kind Dru used to love me to hunt for.  Couldn’t.  Wasn’t about the chip, hell wasn’t even about the fucking soul.  I just. . . I couldn’t.  She looked—”

Spike didn’t move when arms circled him again, holding him tightly.  He didn’t push the mortal away, though, just stood there, being held.

“I pushed her.  S’how I knew the chip didn’t work.  Pushed an’ she fell down, but she didn’t cry out.  Just looked up at me, waiting for me to do something.  Anything.  So I ran.  The Big Bad, chipless and free, turned and ran from a chit choking on desert dust.  Didn’t eat for weeks.  Couldn’t.  Every time I did. . .

“Every time I did, I remembered that this one could have a family.  People who’d miss an’ need them.”

Xander tightened his hold and realized why Spike was staying and why Xander wanted him to stay so very much.  The Scoobies, for better or for worse, were a family.  A very close knit one.  And while Dawn, and Buffy, and Anya, and even Willow were off finding themselves and reconnecting. . . Xander was alone.  Xander had no one to come home to, no one to talk about his day with, no one to. . . care for.  To love.

Just like Spike.


	5. Chapter 5

Xander was. . . hugging him.  Trying not to shift nervously, Spike wondered if he’d ever been hugged before.  He’d hugged other people—his sister, his mother, Drusilla.  Dawn, sometimes, especially early one summer when the world stopped for a while.  But he couldn’t remember a time when someone had actively held  _him_.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Xander murmured.  “One might even say brooding.”

“Thought I told you not to compare me to Soulboy down south.”  The words felt pre-programmed in his mouth.   _This is a good thing, bein’ held.  Innit?_

“Would I do that?” Xander answered easily, lifting his chin to tuck Spike’s head underneath it.

Confused at this new position, Spike obligingly turned his head so it rested flat along Xander’s shoulder.  “Liar,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the slightly rough skin of Xander’s neck, right below where he shaved.

 _Not a kiss,_  Spike thought.   _Just. . . tastin’ him, is all._

Xander shivered when he spoke, but didn’t respond.  Maybe held him a little closer.

“Can let me go,” he said eventually.  More shivering, but Spike didn’t want to move away.  Stubble whisked along sensitive skin, prickly incentives.

“Sure.  Because, you know, you’re struggling and complaining so much.”

The amusement  _should_  have bothered him.  Being laughed at was something William had had enough of, the demon always quick to take offense.  But it was hard when a warm, strong chest accepted his weight without comment.  When the amusement was so clearly not an insult and more like a joke to be shared.

“You’re good at this,” Xander said quietly.  “Cuddling.  Anya was, too.  She’s always so bossy you’d never think so, but. . . she liked it.”

 _“Come on, luv, don’t you fancy a cuddle after?  You’re so warm and soft.  Let me just get the blankets from the bed and we’ll—”_

 _“Don’t touch me, Spike.  Ever.”_

The memory was a shock of ice-water.  Any attempts to treat Buffy like a lover—tucking a strand of hair behind her ear or even just kissing her palm—had been met with freezing dismissal.  Spike pulled away, surprised that Xander let him, grabbing his clothes and heading into the bedroom to get changed.

He wasn’t sure he could handle Xander trying to offer  _him_  those same things.

Dressed, Spike stood in the center of Xander’s bedroom at a loss.  He  _should_  be leaving.  The sun was down, or near enough, and he’d repeatedly told himself that was all he was waiting for.  That once it was dark enough, he’d slip back into his crypt and—and he’d do something.  He’d figure out what, later.

 _Balls.  I am brooding._

The quiet knock made him start.  “You okay?” Xander asked without coming inside.

“What am I, one of your sodding women?  I’m fine.”  Right.  Because angry mood-swings were a bang-up way to prove his masculinity.

“O-kay.  Right.  Wanna explain how me having a  _good_  memory with Anya makes you wig?”  Pushing open the door, Xander leaned against the frame with his arms crossed comfortably.

A year ago, he would have responded with a quip or a snarl.  Anything to deflect the question.  Now. . . while the demon raged and the soul quietly encouraged him, Spike found himself telling the truth.  “Just remembering.  Buffy.”

 _“What else am I not allowed to call you, then?  You really_ want _me to yell out ‘Slayer’ when I’m comin’ inside you?  Or is that how you get your kicks, after all?  Listening to the Big Bad vampire heel like a good doggy.”_

 _“Big bad?  You so wish.”_

“Ah.  Right.”   _Oh, look, I’ve made the boy uncomfortable._   Mildly disturbing, that—Xander had been oddly calm the whole day, despite several unnerving revelations. 

“I. . .  You know what?” Xander continued in a rush.  “I’m hungry.  I think I’m gonna make myself dinner.  You want something?”  He waited for maybe an entire second before disappearing into the kitchen.

The room smelled like Xander and just a little bit like Spike.  The sun was literally moments from setting and he could leave at any time.

He went to the kitchen.

There was a hunk of raw meat on the counter, two large patties on a plate next to it.  Xander was shaping a third when he came in.  “Cooking was pretty much Anya’s forte, but I’m slowly mastering the art of the Foreman Grill.  Really, really dead burgers sound good?”

Human food.  Not blood, which Xander had so tactfully not mentioned, but normal, human food.  Spike blinked, trying to remember the last time he’d  _had_  human food, other than the junk from before.  He was halfway through his one attempt to actually give Buffy something edible when he decided that reliving that memory was probably a bad idea.

“Sure,” he said aloud.  “Sounds good.”

Xander’s grin made him feel warm.

They worked together companionably, chatting about the game while meat was cooked, a salad made—Spike was a deft hand with a knife, preening a little under Xander’s appreciative gaze—and buns toasted nicely.  It was all very domestic.  Spike couldn’t find a single thing wrong with it.

Half-way through eating burgers that tasted better than they probably should have, Xander blinked and sat up straight.  “Spike?  How’d we get home last night?  Cause I’m pretty sure I was doing a great impression of a drunk.”

A dr—oh.  Meaning dear old Dad, then.  “Bike.  Motorcycle,” he clarified when Xander just looked more confused.  “You passed out.  I, uh, parked it ’round the back.  Just leaned it against the wall by the dumpster, didn’t want to take anyone’s spot.”  The soul sometimes had the oddest notions about propriety.

Brow still furrowed with confusion, Xander nodded agreeably enough.  “Which means my car is still out there, probably becoming a shiny new home for some drunk.  Crap.”

“You  _drove?”_   Knowing full well that he was going to bury himself in a case of bottles?  Spike could feel his eyebrows climbing unto his hair while his eyes widened in that ridiculously effeminate expression he couldn’t ever control.  Of all the moronic, bloody stupid—  “Are you totally insane?”

Xander just looked at him.  Blinked a little.  “Please, please tell me that’s your soul talking,” he said eventually.

Well, yes, partially.  Which he didn’t have to tell this frighteningly perceptive version of Xander.  Instead, he snatched up a pickle spear to use as a pointer; if he didn’t have something in his hands, he was afraid he was going to do something sentimental like grab at Xander, just to reassure himself that the human was still there.  And William had outgrown that kind of thing long before he’d met up with Drusilla.  Really.  “D’you know how many vamps play ‘suck the drunk’?” he sneered.  “Wait for some poor bastard to drive his car over the rail an’ when he’s passed out from pain and drink, they come up and off him?  Christ, pet, you coulda been somebody’s dinner!”

Xander grabbed the pickle and bit it, although he did have the grace to look sheepish.  “I had stakes with me!” he protested.  “And people know I’m a friend of the Slayer.”

“And you think that makes you  _safer?”_   He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this upset for someone else.  “Xan, that was a sodding  _demon bar._   Friends of the Slayer come with their own targets painted on their bloody backs!  And do you have any idea how biteable you look?”

Furious and oddly frightened, Spike pushed away from the table and out of the room.  He hadn’t meant to say that.  Didn’t understand why he’d even been thinking it then.  But he could see it played out so clearly.   _Xander, passed out on the bar.  Something gets close enough to get a hint of the Slayer-scent that hangs all-bloody-over him.  Something who’s favorite fledge got staked up Sunnydale way, or maybe it just wants to prove how big an’ bad it is, or maybe just fucking_ hungry. _An’ with him still passed out—_

Xander tasted like hamburger and ranch dressing and the caramelized taste of solace. 

Warm hands cupped around his waist, pulling him in close while the breath no vampire needed was sucked out of his lungs.  Distantly, he wondered if kissing had ever been like this.  Soft and gentle and just this side of chaste.  Fully hard in his jeans, but with no desire to do anything about it.  Just enjoying the feeling of anticipation and Xander’s mouth on his.

“Hey.  I’m fine.  You got me home, safe and sound.  See?”

“Don’t do it again.”  He wished he could blame it all on the soul, but it was never that simple.  He’d always been a pathetic ponce when it came to those who—whatever the hell Xander was to him.  A friend, maybe.  But the thought of him getting hurt. . .   “Just don’t.”

“You know, I think I’m outgrowing my bar-hopping phase.  I mean, really, what’s to do there, other than get completely drunk and your pockets picked when you pass out?”  Stepping back slowly, Xander offered a small grin.  “Can we just go get my car first?  Before it becomes a shiny new box under a bridge.”

“Do you even have bridges in Sunnydale?”  The bantering was automatic, something Xander had to have known.  Just like he’d known when to back off, before.  And when to press.   _He’s. . . taking care of me,_  Spike realized slowly.   _The way he takes care of the girls._

It was just a touch unnerving.

“Well, we have overpasses. . . somewhere.  Okay, no bridge, but come on!  Do you know how long it takes to get the smell of vomit out of upholstery?  And every time we get covered in demon-goop it’s always ‘Xander, can we have a ride back home?’.  I’m surprised my car doesn’t smell like ass.  Although, that might be a good way keep homeless guys out of it.  Think I could market that?  Car-alarms not good enough for you, try this handy bottle of DemonName blood!  Guaranteed to keep car thieves and other unsavory types at least twenty feet away, comes complete with a free pair of nose-plugs for the driver!”

He’d never noticed how effective Xander’s babbling was.  A clever, self-effacing way to usher them over the rough spot and out the door.  Usually, he’d just wanted the boy to shut up.

Sunnydale was always quiet in the summer.  The humidity of the day evaporated at sundown, creating what should have been the perfect hunting—but it wasn’t.  The occasional vamp came out for a bite, but most of them were just gone.  Spike didn’t know where they went and had never cared to look.

They walked together easily, Xander occasionally making a random comment but letting it die out before it became a full-fledged conversation.  Talking wasn’t necessary, just habitual.  Spike thought idly about nicking a pack of cigarettes—ignoring both the turned up nose and the rumbled approval when he didn’t.  He didn’t need monitors anymore.

It took nearly an hour to reach the bar from last night, which explained why Xander had wanted to drive there, at least.  The car was sitting right where it’d been parked, seemingly no worse for wear.

“My baby,” Xander crooned when they came up to it.  “Are you okay, baby?” he asked, draping one arm over the roof for an odd, side-ways hug.  “I’m so sorry I left you here.”

“I’m bloody well not,” Spike groused.  The walk had calmed him, but he was still annoyed that Xander had done something so—so  _common._   Scoobies weren’t supposed to go that way, dammit.  They had to stick around for the big fights.  “How’d your ‘baby’ feel if you wrapped it ’round a damned tree?”

“Gasp!  You wound me!”   _Did he actually_ say _‘gasp’?_   “How can you say such things in the presence of my brand new Honda Accord?”

It took a raised eyebrow for Spike to realize he was being teased.  “You’re bonkers,” he answered, grinning.  “Lucky for you I’m good with bonkers.  Come on, then, pet,” he continued in the low voice that had always worked with Dru.  “I’ll drive you home, take right good care of you.”

The sudden wall of pheromones caught him completely off guard.   _The hell?_ Too surprised to think of an answer, Spike just stood there, staring.   _Me acting like a pathetic tosser turns him_ on?

This time, Xander’s babble was even faster. 

“Movie?” he asked with a nervous laugh.  “I think something suitably manly is playing down at the Rex.  Wanna watch shit get blown up?  Always good for a laugh. . .or we could patrol.  If we do it fast we probably won’t run into Buffy or Dawn.  Did you know that she’s patrolling now?  Usually with Buffy, but I think she sneaks out later.  I’ve caught her a couple times by herself and she’s always yelling at  _me_  to come over and have dinner with her and Buffy before I can yell at  _her_  for being in the cemetery by herself. . .”

Spike allowed himself to be herded into the car, not commenting one way or the other.   _Could that really be it?  He’s not askin’ for it, been careful about that.  But that can’t be all; there’s always a string somewhere._

When the car stopped, they were less than a hundred yards from the crypt he’d picked out for himself.  The one with the dirt floor, hard coffin-bed, and thick cobwebs.  The one he’d chosen as a form of penance.

Except Xander didn’t seem to think he needed that.

Opening the trunk revealed a small arsenal.  Xander made a point of picking up a long dagger for himself, handing over a host of stakes Spike immediately stashed in various places around his body.  Times like this, he missed the duster with all the pockets and catches he’d sewn in the lining.

He wasn’t sure he wanted it back, though.

Armed, the two men headed into the first of four cemeteries.  Patrolling felt normal, natural.  Something old and familiar and good.  There was no set pattern they followed, just wandering past headstones and small tombs, idly reading epitaphs they’d long ago memorized.

They staked only three vampires.

It occurred to him that for Xander, no meant no.  There was just red or green, no yellow to confuse the issue.  Minds could be changed, of course, and he’d fight to change them—but the final answer was just that.  Final.

Meaning for the first time since he could remember—the choice was his.

Soul and demon bickered uselessly while they circled back to the car. 

Driving home was automatic, neither of them realizing their destination until a battered motorcycle gleamed in the headlights.  “How’d you get that to Africa?”

“Boat.”  After driving around most of the country, searching for any kind of information.  Spending time with Dru gave him a few more contacts than usual, but rumors of his chip and helping the Slayer had closed a lot of doors.  He was surprised the thing worked, actually.  Weren’t a lot of roads in the desert.  “Like to fly one day.  See the world from top.”

“Yeah.  Me too.”

Back in the apartment, Spike followed as Xander went into the kitchen and stared at the empty cupboard near the toaster.  The one that used to hold a large assortment of bottles.  Their dirty plates and dishes were stacked up in the sink, unwashed.

“You don’t want that.”  There was more, if he needed to say it, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to.

“No.  I don’t.”  There was no guilt or shame in his voice, just a hint of wonder.  “I. . . what do I do now?”

His choice, right?  Usually, he didn’t have a choice.  He’d fight for one, clawing his way through whatever he could, but it was never him that was chosen.  And if, by some miracle, he was, there was always a catch.  A price that rendered everything sour and dull.

But not this time.  Maybe.  Because Xander had told him clean slate and it  _felt_  like he meant it.

“What do you want to do?” Spike asked carefully.

“Dunno.”  Closing the cupboard, he glanced at the sink and shuddered.  “Maybe there’s another movie on?”

“Xander.  What do you want?”

He didn’t let his voice drop.  Hips staying straight underneath his shoulders, expression as neutral as he could make it.  It was tempting to load the dice, had a hundred years and more of practicing just how to do it.  Seducing Xander was easy.

 _When have I ever wanted somethin’ that was easy?_ Except _Harmony._

“Huh?  Spike, what are you—” Xander swallowed abruptly, eyes dilating.  “I think you need to spell this out,” he said roughly.  “I’m used to blunt.  And I won’t play games.”

Neither would Spike, not anymore.  “I want to be inside you, Xander,” he said calmly.  “And I want you to want me to.”

The sound Xander made was wordless, but definitely not a negative.  This time it was Spike who initiated the kiss, drawing Xander into it with gentle licks and nips.  That weirdly elongated mouth turned full with friction and Spike knew he was pressing hard enough to bruise.  Xander just slid a hand behind his head, pulling him hard enough that their teeth clacked together.

 _Not doing_ this _again, neither._ “Hey.”  Pushing gently on Xander’s shoulders, it required pulling his head back to actually break the kiss.  “We’ve all night, pet,” he said, stroking his thumbs along the collarbone.

“I want you,” Xander whispered, voice hungry.

“And you’ve got me.”  Not even that much heat could hide nervous fear.  “I want to make this good for you, Xan.  You said you weren’t a virgin last night, but—”

 _That_  got Xander to stop trying to touch him and allow Spike to push them further apart.  “Right, that,” he half-laughed, shame swarming up beside the fear.  “Funny thing.”  He flushed so darkly that Spike was afraid he’d pass out—particularly since most of his blood had long ago rushed south.  “I’m not  _technically_  a virgin.  I’m—”  His lips moved, but no sound came out.  Coughing once, he tried again.  “Ahn—”

The nervous glance at the cutesy salt-and-pepper shakers on the table finally clued him in.

 _Right.  ‘Ahn’ and her toys._   “You  _have_  met Dru, yeah?” he asked with a small laugh, trying not to imagine the ex-demon all blunt and dominating while Xander took it like a well-trained puppy.  Leaning in for another kiss, Spike didn’t let him go until he was sure the blush had faded.  Then he started moving them towards the bedroom.  “Gonna make this good,” he whispered between stumbling steps and scorching kisses.  “Never gonna want that fake stuff again.”

Xander groaned, low and desperate in the back of his throat.  “Please.  I want. . .”

“Wanted a real one, did you?  All hard and heavy inside you?  Filling you the way plastic never could?  Oh, yeah, pet, you’re gonna love this.”  He stroked along damp sweats, feeling solid heat jump under his fingers.  “Shhh, easy.  Not too fast.  Got time.”

Xander was panting again, hips jerking involuntarily as he was pushed onto the bed.  “Not gonna last—I want—”

Kissing was better than talking, especially when Xander was saying silly things like that.  It’d been a while since his last human male, true, but it wasn’t like he’d forgotten.  And you didn’t last as long as he had without picking up a bag full of tricks.

When he pulled back, there wasn’t enough air between them for words—though the glazed eyes and kiss-bruised lips seemed to indicate thinking wasn’t really possible, either.  It made Spike realize just how in control Xander had been last night, how careful he’d been to make sure that they were both enjoying it.

Odd, being the seducer again, when he’d been so adamant about avoiding it before.  It didn’t matter that Xander was hardly aware of anything but the sucking kisses on his neck or the hands that stroked over nipples turned hard and aching.  What mattered was Xander  _wanted_  this.  The rumbling purr that shivered through his skin, the barest hint of menace as teeth closed hard—but never broke skin.

Watching him thrash in such total abandon, Spike could truly believe that Xander trusted him.

Shirts and pants were removed quickly, Spike keeping his jeans on for an added measure of support.  This wasn’t about him getting his rocks off, no matter what Xander probably believe and he doubted vampiric control could stand up to the wanton picture Xander made on mussed blue sheets. 

Curly black hair tickled his nose as he slowly made his way down Xander’s body.  Didn’t spend nearly enough time on small brown nipples and he wondered if he’d have a chance at a repeat.  Xander was incredibly sensitive there and Spike wondered if he could make him orgasm without ever touching Xander’s cock.

But that was for another time, if it ever happened.  For now, Xander made a noise of confusion as he was rolled onto his stomach, spreading his legs instinctively.  “Shh,” Spike soothed.  “Trust me.”

The first drag of his tongue made Xander go very, very still.  “Um, Spike?  I don’t—”

Resting his chin on one very tense buttock, he kneaded at the other.  “Want me to fuck you?” he asked bluntly.

“Yesgodplease.”

“Then let me do it right.”

He waited until Xander nodded, laying his head down on folded arms.  Sliding one hand underneath to tug and fondle Xander’s erection, he delicately licked from balls to back—chuckling when hips suddenly thrust back at his face.  “See?” he leered with another long lick, circling around the tiny entrance.  “Told you.”

The capitulating groan turned into a shout as Spike pushed his tongue inside.

Sweet, silken heat gripped him, making him throb alarmingly in his jeans.  He stopped rocking his hips against the mattress with a mental slap.   _Xander,_  he reminded himself.   _This is about Xander._   For all the earlier words about acceptance and desire, the tense muscles that tried to squeeze his tongue out of his mouth told him that Xander was extremely nervous.  Nothing less than he’d expected, of course. 

Fortunately, rimming was one of those things few men ever disliked.

His head was buried in a pillow, thick fabric doing little to stop the volume of his moans and cries.  His hips were working helplessly, riding Spike’s tongue before driving forward into Spike’s obliging fist.  Spike kept at him until he was on the edge of that mindless place, where the need for orgasm overrode the little things, like consideration for ones partner.  All that mattered was coming and  _soon._

Timing was everything.

“That’s it,” Spike crooned, biting gently on his thigh.  If he stretched, he could  _just_  reach the box he knew would be under the bed.  Groping around for the catch with this right hand, he continued to squeeze and stroke Xander with the left.  If he could just find that little tube. . .

Releasing Xander’s throbbing cock, he rammed his tongue in deep while squeezing hard around his balls.

Xander was apparently a screamer.  His body jerked like he’d touched a live wire and for a moment, Spike thought he was going to stop breathing entirely.  Then he made a noise like a sob, melting into the bed.

Spike quickly popped the top, slathered three fingers with strawberry-scented lube and pressed all of them into Xander’s extremely relaxed arse.

“Oh, my god!”

“Not moving—I’m  _not_  moving, Xander.  Relax.”  Not that it was possible to stay tense after that kind of orgasm, but lax, sated muscles were still doing their best to try.  Stroking a sweaty back, Spike kept murmuring reassurances in a low voice.  “Just get used to it, that’s all.  You already know you like this.  Just gotta get past this one bit. . . ”

“How many?” Xander croaked.  “This is. . . bigger.”

“Three.”  He glanced down to where his fingers disappeared into Xander’s body.  It was incredibly erotic.  “Just three.”

“Oh, god. . .”  He waited until his breathing calmed before clarifying, “Anya could barely get  _two_  in.”

“Mm, so it was her who did it?” Spike asked, carefully spreading his fingers.  “No little toys she strapped on?”

This time there  _was_  no blood left in his face to flush, but the shift in his body communicated embarrassment clearly enough.  Also returning arousal.  “Both,” he muttered quickly.

“Then it’s just been a while.”  When his fingers spread more easily, he started moving them back and forth.  Inhaling sharply, Xander pushed up onto his hands and knees to look between his legs.

“I’m hard again.”  Something cracked through the amazement, riding on the edges.  The near-constant moaning faded into the sounds of breathing.

A thousand responses, each more flippant than the last, flitted through his mind.  None of them were appropriate.  Leaning down to the center vertebrae, Spike concentrated on opening Xander up.  His fingers were moving easily, now, his other hand free to trace the back of Xander’s balls and tickle his perineum.

“Ready?” he asked eventually.  Sex was supposed to be a loud, messy affair, where both partners came so hard their brains dribbled out their ears.  Buffy had always been quiet, hating when he talked even if it wasn’t dirty.  An edge of desperation and loathing always filled that silence.

Without Xander’s moans and lust-fogged words, he wasn’t sure what he was thinking.

“This way’s easiest,” he said nervously.  “You on your knees.”  And he’d botched that up completely, the way Xander tensed.  He hadn’t  _meant_  it that way.  Faltering under the continued hush, he added, “Up to you, Xander.  We’ll do whatever you want.”

Sighing, Xander pulled his body away from Spike.  Vampires didn’t get goosebumps easily, but after being in such vivid heat, Spike could feel the wet skin on his fingers crawling in cold.  With sure, deft movements, Xander pushed him down onto the bed, opened his jeans, pushed them down, and slathered his cock with more lube.  Then he lay on his back, yanking Spike halfway on top before understanding dawned and Spike started to help.

Xander opening his legs and wrapping them around Spike’s naked waist was one of the most erotic things Spike had ever seen.  Or maybe it was the way Xander’s big, warm hands grabbed his cock and lined it up.

Or maybe it was the way he gently stroked Spike’s face, the kindness in his eyes not eclipsed by lust.  “I want you in me, Spike.  Please?”

His hips moved without conscious command, slowly sinking halfway in.  Xander gasped at the penetration, clutching his shoulders while his body reacted.  “Wait,” Xander panted, pressing his forehead up to Spike’s.

Hot breath like Brazilian winds on his face, the moisture beading on his skin in place of sweat.  Wet heat, like velvet lava, wrapped around him so that every nerve sung.  Pressure so intense it was nearly crushing, molding around him.

He couldn’t have moved if Xander begged him to.

The first coupling with Buffy had been as much triumph and hate as it had been physical sensation.  It had taken multiple occurrences before the poet that had never truly gone away attempted to translate the feel of being inside Buffy into paltry, halting stanza.

There were no words for this.

Xander felt. . . Xander felt  _good._   There was no emotional baggage to mar the perfect feel of flesh surrounding him.  No need to perform or pretend.  There was just Xander.

Then Xander was moving, trying to get more of him inside.  Forcing himself under tight control, Spike eased forward until he was as deep as he could go.  Xander gave a broken gasp, eyes opened wide.  “Never—never felt like this.”

Spike wanted to agree but couldn’t figure out how to inhale enough air to speak.

There was no more talking after that.  Nothing but the sound of harsh, panting breaths and the sound of moving flesh disturbed them.  The pace was measured and slow.  No hurry in their movements, no urgency as Xander rocked up and Spike thrust down.  Just the feel of that tight heat stretched wide.

Spike never knew how long it lasted.  Probably hours, but it could have been minutes.  It didn’t matter.  Xander’s gasp told him when he’d found the right angle and he concentrated on hitting that spot again and again and again. . .  Until the perfect moment when the body beneath him was trembling and it was time to wrap his hand around Xander’s erection.  Swipe a thumb over the wet head, massaging the shaft with soft, gentle rhythm.  And Xander came.

When his body finally stilled, Spike was still hard within him.

“Hey.  Moron.”  Voice almost completely gone, Xander’s lips quirked slightly on one side, eyes glowing in the darkness.  “You were supposed to enjoy this.”

“Did.”

“So how come you didn’t—”  The smile turned wicked, muscles that had to have been sore clamping down with punishing force.

When the white cleared, Xander was a warm, heavy weight in his arms.  Tilting his head enough to see his face, Spike traced the small smile there.  The relaxed expression.  That he’d put that there.

Closing his eyes, he wondered if this was how it was when Angel lost his soul.


	6. Chapter 6

For the second straight morning, Xander woke with his very own vampire-blanket. Much sturdier than the blankets he  _usually_  used, but Xander wasn't complaining. Just like before, it was nice being held so tightly, hard muscles gripping with preternatural strength that could snap him in two, if Spike wanted.

But Spike didn't want. It wasn't anger or frustration or even hunger that powered the tense limbs surrounding him. Mostly, it was desperation. And maybe just a little bit of something else. Something that felt a lot like. . . caring. Affection.

Respect.

Xander didn't often get  _respect_  from his lovers. Surprisingly, it was Cordelia who had offered him the most. . . or maybe not surprisingly.  _Take away the Queen-C façade and she was just as much the fumbling virgin I was._  And in the dark, with the utility closet shut tight, it was easier to be that shy, almost totally inexperienced girl she actually was, instead of the undisputed ruler of the Sunnydale social scene. But from Faith?  _Ha, not Ms. Asphyxiation Is Fun!_  Or even Anya? Oh, no, that'd come much later. Not until he'd actually gained enough experience to be an active participant in their love-making.

 _Love making. Is that—is that what we did? 'Cause that wasn't just screwing. That was—different._  Xander looked down at the figure curled tightly around him, face lax with sleep, a tiny, hesitant smile lifting those very kissable lips. Spike looked content. Peaceful. Had he ever seen that expression before?  _Okay, not that_  looking  _for a calm, contented Spike was a priority, but I don't think I've ever seen him look so. . . sated. Not ready to bounce off walls for the sheer heck of it, twisting our minds to see us twist. Just calm. Relaxed._

And Xander had  _never_  seen Spike relaxed, of that he was now very certain.

 _And I thought Angel was the over-controlled one._  Not after meeting William, the hesitant remnants of the person Spike had been while alive. Shy, inquisitive, he was a male Willow without the little confidence even she'd had back before Buffy and hormones had destroyed their comfortable world.  _Huh. I bet if you took away me and Jesse, you'd have a Willow that was a hell of a lot like William was._

Which would explain why it was so easy to deal with the vampire yesterday.

It surprised him, the kind of iron control Spike held over himself. The whole heart-on-his-sleeve thing, okay, more like the heart-on-his-very-expressive-face thing, made  _control_ a word that never got associated with the hyperactive vampire. But he was. And that was probably the point.

Xander didn't worry that all vampires had bits of their original personality in them, counter-balancing the effects of the demon. You fight enough vampires and you learn a bit about that. Most vamps were that—vampires. Killers. Things that drained every drop of your blood and loved every second of it. But Spike. . . Spike was different. Had been different from the first moment he'd arrived in Sunnydale.

Spike had always been a  _person_  first.

Maybe it was the whole punk-attitude, now very obviously the same kind of shield as Xander's inappropriate humor. Maybe it was the vulnerability he'd never truly gotten rid of. _Doesn't really matter, does it?_  Xander decided, smoothing back an unruly curl.  _He was different. He still is different. Just differently different._

Spike had always had something to prove to everyone, even to himself. He'd never let go of himself, not even for an instant. Just like Willow, too nervous and unsure to ever trust herself to relax. Or even himself, so afraid of rejection and being ‘stupid' that he made it his badge of honor?

 _Damn. Didn't the school guidance counselor say everyone grew out of this stuff eventually?_

Apparently not when one was turned into a vampire. Still absently carding soft, ungeled hair, Xander was content to stay there for a while longer. He liked this confused, immature Spike and not just because it made him feel important and comfortable, the way hanging out with Willow used to. This Spike was—slowly waking up.

"Hey," Spike croaked, eyes a foggy, morning grey that promised bright blue skies. "You okay?" Those too-dark brows were lowered in sleepy concern, but not the true fear Xander had worried about seeing.

"I'm sore," Xander understated, not at all looking forward to the moment he'd have to move, "but I'm good."

Spike's eyelashes tickled Xander's skin as he blinked, concern not lessening. "I didn't—"

Kissing was becoming Xander's favorite way to get Spike to calm down or shut up.  _With the added benefit of, you know, kissing._  Vampire's shouldn't have tasted like anything, but Spike always tasted like warm cream. The gooey kind you drenched over strawberries on lazy Sunday mornings.

 _Huh. Wonder if I_  have  _strawberries. Could eat them off him._  Xander felt himself harden, despite a dick that still felt sore and tender, his tongue aggressively taking Spike's mouth at the thought of bright red fruit highlighting the pallor of that sculpted chest, juices dripping down every ridge and valley.

"How about we start this again," Xander said when they finally broke apart. "Good morning, Spike."

The slight hint of a smile from before was back, making Spike looked befuddled and dazed.  _And why do I suddenly think that's adorable?_  "Good morning, Xander."

"See, was that so hard? I'd be really happy to skip the oh-god-what-did-we-do thing. I know what we did. Wanted it. Kinda asked for it." Pausing to let the grin slip into something more serious, he finished, "Not regretting it."

Hesitant wonder burned away the grey fog until only blue remained, staring up at him the way Willow used to when he did something stupid and male for her. That look had always scared him, before, because Willow wasn't supposed to look at him that way. Not when he couldn't look that way back at her. Now, though, the quiet, simple joy that was as much relief as it was happiness, made him feel like—

 _Knock, knock, knock._

"Bloody hell!" Groaning, Xander looked over to his night stand where the clock lived. "It's seven am! Who comes over at seven am on a Sunday?" Rolling flat on his back, he glanced down to see one eyebrow raised in sardonic amusement. "Oh, shut up. You're a bad influence on me."

"Don't really remember me doing a lot of cursing, recently," Spike denied, although the laughter in his voice said he was more amused than anything else. "But you go right on believin' that, if it keeps you happy."

 _Knock, knock, knock!_

"Five minutes!" Xander yelled, arm curling around Spike protectively when the vampire flinched. "Sorry," he continued in a quieter voice. "Look, why don't you make the coffee and I'll go see who the hell is at the door?"

Spike froze. "Er, coffee?"

"Yeah, the blinds are still down so you should be okay." Moving was difficult. He hurt, every inch of his body griddled with that melting ache of incredible sex. The kind that was usually cured by more sex, of the slow, gentle variety. The kind he'd been hoping for ever since he woke up.

But the silence from outside his front door was the expectant kind, impatient and more than willing to break down the door if he took too long. He'd had too many unexpected visitors not to be able to figure that out.

 _Stupid life,_  Xander though rebelliously, forcing his body out of bed and stumbling over to the closet. Robe. He needed a robe.

"Ri-ight," Spike said slowly. Shuffling sounds of sheets being moved weren't bad, so Xander continued robe-hunting. Blue, shiny, stupid thing that Anya had bought for him and made him wear. . . "Look, how about I go find a nice quiet closet instead, yeah?"

Robe finally in hand, Xander whirled around to glare at the figure on his bed. "Freeze, mister! You, Spike, are a guest in my home. I don't make my guests  _hide in the closet_  when other people come over. I'm not ashamed of you."

The hunched shoulders and furtive expression said that while Xander may not be,  _Spike_  definitely was. Which, after the last day or so, didn't surprise Xander in the slightest.

Yanking the robe on, he stomped over to the bed and employed the keep-Spike-distracted technique. It was a little unnerving the way Spike's mouth immediately opened, especially since Xander was still relieving the way he'd been so thoroughly controlled the night before. Bad thoughts, like why Spike was so quietly willing, made his stomach knot—but he couldn't do anything about that now.

"There's another robe in the closet, you're welcome to dig it out. That failing, I've got sweats and stuff you can use. Go make coffee. Maybe have your own breakfast, since I have no idea how long this is gonna take. Okay?"

 _Knockknockknock!_

He was definitely going to have to get Spike to teach him how to growl. The pathetic sound he made was  _not_  angry or dangerous enough for him, anymore. Spike offered a weak smile, which could possibly be taken for reluctant agreement. Maybe. But then Spike was pushing him gently and nodding towards the entrance. "Go on," he said quietly. "'Fore they beat down the door."

"Coffee, Spike. And your own breakfast. No hiding. You're my  _guest_  and I want you here. No hiding."

 _KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!_

Ready to scream with frustration, Xander irritably belted the robe. "This  _better_  be an emergency," he yelled, undoing the multiple locks Anya had insisted upon. Finally yanking it open, he demanded, "Well?"

"I don't know," Dawn said calmly, stake partially raised. "Is it?"


End file.
